Wading Through Blood
by Chelsie Dagger
Summary: A CrackFic alternate ending to my own story, 'Wading Into the Unknown' in which Mrs. Butte is more than a little unhinged mentally and no one is safe. Picks up after Ch.43 of 'Wading Into the Unknown.' Dark, adult themes addressed. Not for the faint of heart. Main Character is Mrs. Butte, played here by Imelda Staunton. Chelsie and Baxley included! Rated M for sex and violence.
1. The First One is Easy

**AN/ This is a VERY dark and bloody CrackFic alternate ending to my own story, starting after Chapter 43 of 'Wading Into the Unknown'. This is for you bloodthirsty folk who want to see Thomas come to no good end. This will contain graphic violence. If that is not your thing, you should not read this and simply stick to the main path. If you laughed all the way through Pulp Fiction, this might just be for you, you sick puppy.**

**This was born from a PM discussion with GraysonSteele and from the fact that I am woefully underusing Mrs. Butte (played by Imelda Staunton) in my main fic. It's like bringing Shirley Maclaine in for the Christmas Special and then using her like set dressing instead of an actress. (oh, wait…)**

**This will be light on the Chelsie early on (for reasons that will soon become obvious), but they will make an appearance in the climactic final chapters.**

**If you have not been reading 'Wading Into the Unknown', it's only 40 some odd chapters, so get cracking. Or, read this little synopsis that will tell you just enough to enjoy this bit of weirdness. **

****Warning: This is going to be bloody! [In case the title did not clue you in.]****

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><p><strong>PREVIOUSLY ON 'Wading Through Blood' [aka 'Wading Into the Unknown' Chapters 1-43]::<strong>

**May/June 1923- After the canon events of the 2013 CS, Carson and Mrs. Hughes have discovered their mutual feelings and are engaged to be married. Thomas is an ass who is trying to drive Carson to early retirement and has also threatened to blackmail the family if he does not get his way. Thomas has tricked Mrs. Butte into helping him convince Lord G. that Carson is not entirely healthy.**

**Carson is currently in a health clinic and Mrs. Hughes is on her way back to Downton with Ivy, Daisy and Jimmy. Lady Mary is the only member of the family who knows the heads of household are engaged.**

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><p>Lucille fumed in her room. She had been played by that scheming, slimy under butler. Now, Mr. Carson was gone; sentenced to who knows how long in a health clinic. Lucille knew she had played her part in condemning him to this fate, but she bitterly regretted it now. Anna had explained Thomas' power play to Mrs. Butte the afternoon after Mr. Carson's departure. She had offered to go directly to His Lordship and own her betrayal, but Anna had stopped her. "We don't want to tip our hand yet, Mrs. Butte. It could help us to have Mr. Barrow thinking you are still on his side."<p>

If she had any hope that Mr. Carson might forgive her, Lucille was going to have to take steps to prove her devotion. Most of the household were resisting Mr. Barrow's leadership out of loyalty to Mr. Carson. Lucille knew that she would have to appear to support Mr. Barrow in order to deceive him into thinking she was still on his side. Anna had not let Mrs. Butte know the full story behind Mr. Barrow's plotting, but she read enough between the lines to know that he was threatening the family. The only thing that really concerned her was that he was threatening Mr. Carson.

_We've ways of dealing with the likes of him, don't we, love?_ She asked her reflection. A familiar dark smile answered her. It had been years since she'd needed to call on that Darkness; not since Mr. Butte's unfortunate accident.

-00-

Mr. Carson had been gone less than a week when Lucille saw her first opportunity to show her devotion.

Mr. Levinson had decided that the continent was not for him. He and Mrs. Levinson were headed back to America soon and would be stopping briefly at Grantham House. Planning to travel with them to America, Ivy had returned to London to await her future employer. Ivy was a harmless moron in Lucille's opinion, but when her first act upon returning to Grantham House had been to report to Mr. Barrow and deliver a letter from James, Lucille decided to take more interest in the girl.

Mrs. Butte was aware of the sordid history between Barrow and James. She found it odd that the two men were now friends. If Thomas had a weakness, it might be in his friendship with Mr. Kent. A day after Ivy had returned, Mrs. Butte was able to corner her in the laundry room.

"I trust you left all well in Yorkshire?"

"Huh?"

"James sent Mr. Barrow a note. I wondered if there was anything amiss at Downton."

"Oh, I think Jimmy were just sending a friendly note to Mr. Barrow."

"Odd how chummy they are, considering their past."

"What do you mean?"

Lucille rolled her eyes. This girl was hopeless; best to take the direct approach. "I mean Mr. Barrow kissing James against his will."

"He what now? You should not be spreading such rumors, Mrs. Butte." Ivy was scandalized.

"Not rumors, girl. In fact, if I could get my hands on that note, I could probably prove it to you. It was likely a love letter."

"But Jimmy likes women. He tried something funny with me once."

"Naïve girl, just because he liked you doesn't mean he doesn't like Thomas as well. You'd better wise up before you head to America or they'll eat you alive. Now, where is that letter?"

"Mr. Barrow keeps all his private correspondence locked up. I saw him put the letter away myself."

"Where does he keep it?" Lucille did not dare to hope…

"Bottom right drawer of the butler's desk." Ivy blurted out.

Lucille smiled darkly. It seemed fate was on her side. There was not a desk or door in this house for which she did not have a key. "Oh. If it's locked up, then it is beyond me. Oh, well." She swept out of the room, leaving a confused Ivy behind her. _Not that the girl is ever not confused_, Mrs. Butte thought to herself.

The next few days were a blur as the Americans arrived and prepared to leave again. Very late, the night before their departure Mrs. Butte was surprised to find herself confronted by Ivy in the kitchen.

"You took Mr. Barrow's letters." The girl accused.

"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Butte batted her eyes in what she considered an innocent way.

"Mr. Barrow accused me of taking Jimmy's letters from his desk, but I never did. I've been thinking about it. It must have been you. You were interested in those letters."

"Was I? I don't recall that."

"You were. And you knew where they were kept."

"And how did I know that?" Mrs. Butte asked her, pointedly.

"I told you. You must remember." But her confidence faltered.

"Perhaps I do." Mrs. Butte shrugged.

"I shall tell Mr. Barrow."

"You mean you didn't mention it to him yet?"

"Not yet, but I've a mind…"

"I doubt that very much."

"What?"

Enjoying herself, Lucille raised her voice and spoke very clearly. "I don't think you've a mind of any sort, girl. In fact, I think you are a fool. You will likely be a failure in America. You're best not even going."

Tears welled in Ivy's eyes. "Why would you say that?"

"I feel it is better to know the harsh truths of life before you ruin yourself with false hopes. Take it from me; there is nothing more painful than false hopes." Her eyes darkened, causing the young kitchen maid to back away from the shorter woman. But Mrs. Butte's expression changed in a flash, "But then all hope is false until it comes true."

"I…I suppose so." Ivy stammered as the tears began to fall. She was more unsettled by Mrs. Butte's smile than she had been by her dark stare.

"I am sorry if I upset you, Ivy. I should not have said anything. Pay me no mind." _That should be easy._ "Here, let me get you a cool cloth for your eyes. You can't show up for the boat train with puffy eyes." She stepped past Ivy and took a cloth from beside the sink. Mrs. Butte wet the cloth and dabbed at the girl's red eyes.

"There now." She soothed.

After a few moments, Ivy's sobbing subsided. Ivy leaned over the sink to wet the cloth anew. Quick as lightening, Mrs. Butte brought a heavy, cast iron skillet down onto the back of the girl's head, killing her instantly.

"Oops." Lucille giggled as she pushed the body upon the drain board. She hummed as she set to work. Lucille was glad Mrs. Patmore was so particular about keeping her knives sharp. She was also grateful her father had taught her his trade of butchering even though she was only a girl. Lucille was quite gifted and had been very handy in Mr. Butte's business until he had hit her one too many times.

As she went methodically about her business, Lucille hoped there was enough fresh sage in the pantry.

-00-

"Have you seen Ivy, Mrs. Butte?" Anna asked with concern.

"Not since last night." Lucille smiled sweetly. "Perhaps she has already gone ahead. Are her things gone?"

"Yes." Anna admitted, though her curiosity was not sated.

"There you are. She'll meet them at the train or the boat, I dare say."

"Yes, I dare say. It's just very unlike Ivy not to say goodbye."

_This one is too smart by half,_ the Darkness thought.

_But she is on our side,_ Lucille reminded herself. _For now. _

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I know this is rather dark, but it really is meant to be rather funny (in an absurdist, dark way). Did I mention that Mrs. Butte is bonkers in this? And I wanted to give her free rein.**

**This is largely inspired by Imelda Staunton's West End stint as Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd, and yes, I am going to 'go there', so if references to cannibalism gross you out, you should not progress any further. **

**FYI, updates will not be as regular as the main story, but should be about every other day.**

**BTW, I am taking requests for who to off…the list is growing quite long. I think Lord G. will be saying, 'Not another one' quite a lot. Reviews will determine how far this experiment goes on. I have at least 3 chapters, but can probably do 10 pretty easily. It's all up to you guys. Is this just to crazy to continue?  
><strong>


	2. Meet Me at Pelican Stair

"Where did these bangers come from, Mrs. Butte?" Mrs. Patmore asked as she immerged from the pantry.

"They were delivered yesterday. Some new vendor trying to solicit our business. We probably won't switch from White's but he offered me such a good deal, I couldn't say no. They were practically free."

"Hmm. They look fresh, best serve them tonight." Mrs. Patmore commented. "It's a shame Mr. Carson isn't here; he is a great fan of bangers and mash."

-00-

_That was probably the tastiest dinner Ivy ever made,_ Lucille smiled to herself that evening. Lucille unlocked the top drawer of her dresser and looked at her most prized possessions. Next to the glass jar that held the napkin containing the royal sweat, lay a neatly folded handkerchief with the embroidered monogram 'CC'. He had offered it to her once, when she had a cold. After she had sneezed into it, he insisted that she keep it. She had washed it immediately, but then had placed a dollop of his shaving cream in the middle of the square before folding it up. When she wanted to feel close to him, she would hold the cloth to her nose and imagine she was pressing her face against the white linen of his shirt.

Beside the handkerchief was a pair of shoes. He had put them in the donation bin three years ago as he left to return to Downton. He had taken the time to polish them before discarding them. Something in this gesture had spoken to her and she had retrieved and kept the shoes ever since.

There were other little mementos of his in her drawer; a comb, a lock of hair from when he had allowed her to trim his neck a few years ago, his favorite tea cup, which she told him had been broken and a collar he had 'lost' after a late night ball hosted at Grantham House.

To her treasure trove, she had now added a choice few of Thomas' letters. Lucille combed through Thomas' correspondence. There were some interesting letters that would need to be dealt with later, but, for now, she focused on Thomas' communications with James. Most of it was benign dribble about how Ivy wouldn't let Jimmy get past a peck on the cheek. She imagined that Mr. Barrow was about as interested in this topic as she was. Still, there were a few snippets of useful information. James was meant to be spying on Mrs. Hughes and trying to intercept any communication from Mr. Carson or Mrs. Patmore. _That will never do._

A few days after poor Ivy's disappearance, Mrs. Butte sat at her desk writing James a note. It went out in the evening post. She expected it would reach him by the same time tomorrow, which gave her plenty of time to plan.

-00-

"Mrs. Butte?" He walked down the steps to join her on the tidal flat. James could not tell if the tide was coming in or going out, but he had heard that the Thames changed swiftly here. Wapping was nothing like Brighton. Instead of a sandy beach, the riverbank was lined with large rocks, ships' garbage and layers of London detritus. The smell was terrible. It seemed an odd place for a meeting. "I was expecting Mr. Barrow."

_How adorable, the beautiful blond dolt is just smart enough to be suspicious._ Lucille smiled her warmest smile. It sent a shiver up Jimmy's spine, though he blamed it on the cold air coming off the Thames.

"Mr. Barrow is stuck at Grantham House for a while longer, so he sent me to ask you to wait."

"He said he wanted to meet about Ivy. Has there been any news?" Jimmy had been very concerned about her since the report of her failing to meet the Levinson's at the boat had arrived at Downton. She was a dim girl, but it was not like her to just disappear.

"There has been, but it is not for me to disclose it." Mrs. Butte said enigmatically.

"Please, if you know anything, you must tell me." He begged.

"I fear it will upset you."

"I am already upset, not knowing. How can telling me make it worse?"

"When you put it like that, it makes sense." Lucille conceded. "I suppose I could tell you the little that I know. But not here."

She gestured to a nearby brick outcropping. It had been built centuries ago to support the walls along the river.

Reluctantly, Jimmy followed her to a niche in the wall. They were out of sight of everyone here. The air was even colder.

"What did Mr. Barrow tell you exactly?"

"Not much. He just sent me this letter." He handed the letter to her. She read it very carefully, though there was no need. The handwriting did look remarkably like Mr. Barrow's, but Lucille had written this note herself.

_J, We must meet. It concerns Ivy. Come to London on Thursday. Tell no one. Meet me at the Pelican Stair, Wapping at 3. T_

She handed him the letter back and smiled as he tucked it deeply into his pocket. "So he didn't tell you about Alfred?"

"What about Alfred?"

"Apparently, Ivy saw him while she was in London. She snuck out at night."

"What? I don't believe it. When? How?" Jimmy stammered.

"According to her, it was not very often, but then, it only takes once, as they say." Mrs. Butte pretended to be sadly disappointed in Ivy's morals.

"I don't believe it." He repeated. She had refused him, why would she accept Alfred? "Are you saying that she's in _trouble_?"

"Yes, she is."

"But what does that have to do with me?"

"Mr. Barrow is just looking out for you. She swears that it is Alfred's, but Mr. Barrow wanted to be sure it wasn't yours."

"Mine? As if I had the chance! She was locked up tighter than Queen Victoria's knickers when it came to me." He sank onto a stone set into the wall.

"There, there, James. I believe you and so will Mr. Barrow. But you must convince Alfred."

"What?"

"He won't have anything to do with her. He's claiming the child must be yours."

"That creep! I'll show him!" He tried to stand up, but her hand on his shoulder held him down. She was very strong for so small a woman.

"Now, James, you must be calm. I know that Mr. Barrow was going to ask you to write a note to Alfred. Something very simple." She reached into her tiny green handbag and brought out a neatly folded piece of paper and a fountain pen.

He took the writing implement from her and spread the paper over a flat rock. "What should I write?"

"The simpler, the better, I think." Lucille suggested. "Something like, 'Nothing ever happened between Ivy and me. Please don't hurt her. It was always you.'"

Jimmy scribbled the note quickly and then refolded the page carefully. He turned to hand Mrs. Butte the pen, but she was no longer in front of him. Before he could wonder at this, Mrs. Butte had slipped a garrote of fishing wire over his head. The more he fought her, the more her strength and excitement grew. Finally, his struggles ceased and the final twitches stilled. She waited a few minutes more to be sure he was dead.

Lucille picked up the freshly written note, but left the pen where it had fallen. She smiled to see that the tide was beginning to rise. Quickly, she stepped out of the niche and moved across the rocks to the steps back to the city level.

She was back at Grantham House within twenty minutes. She had come and gone without notice. She made a show of emerging from her office and joining most of the other staff in the servant's hall for tea. A few minutes after four, a red faced and flustered Mr. Barrow came bustling in the backdoor.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Barrow?" Miss Baxter asked.

"None of your bloody business." Thomas snapped.

Lucille smiled into her teacup. She had started down this path to help Mr. Carson, to prove her devotion was greater than that Scottish she devil's, but now, Lucille had to admit, she was starting to have fun.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I hope you are having fun too. I think Imelda would just play the HELL out of this!**


	3. A Visit to an Old Friend

**AN/ Thank you for your kind reviews and for reading. Let's turn up the heat on Thomas a bit, shall we?**

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><p>Lucille's plan had been to finish off Mr. Barrow next with a tastefully dramatic suicide, accessorized with Jimmy's note. She could give the authorities a narrative simple enough for even them to understand; Ivy, James and Thomas, all victims of a bloody love triangle. It would have been tied up nice and neat, no further questions asked, but she had a taste for killing now. She could not believe how easy it was; how stupidly the lambs walked to the slaughter.<p>

She'd read all of Thomas' letters. There were others out there who were plotting with Mr. Barrow to ruin the reputation of Downton and of Mr. Carson. If she could take care of them as well, how much greater would his gratitude be? He would have to see that she loved him; have to see that no one else could possibly love him more.

And now that she had mastered Thomas' handwriting, what was to stop her?

_Absolutely nothing._ The Darkness answered.

-00-

Thomas took the phone call from Downton himself.

"No. I haven't heard from him. What do you mean he is missing? How should I know if he might be with Ivy? Of course. Of course. I'll ask around, but why would he come to London? No, nor would I!"

Lucille fought back a smile as he slammed down the phone. She knew that Thomas knew that James had come to London. The telegraph she had created had told him exactly when to meet James at the National Gallery. But James had never shown. James had kept another appointment, poor lamb.

Killing Thomas now would be too easy. Lucille wanted to watch him suffer from a front row seat. She wanted to grab a bag of popcorn and watch Mr. Barrow slowly unravel. This was better than a movie; there was sound!

And once her latest batch of letters found their way to her marks, the movie would only get better.

-00-

"Thank you, Miss Baxter, you've been most cooperative." The constable held the door of the butler's hall open and the Lady's maid scampered out quickly. Molesley offered her a supportive smile. He had been waiting for her, but she brushed past him and disappeared up the stairs mumbling something about Lady Grantham's lace.

From behind the butler's desk, the detective called out, "Who's next, Norris?"

"A Mrs. Butte."

"Good lord, another B?"

"She's the last, guv."

"Of the B's or of the staff?"

"Both, guv."

"Thank heaven."

Half an hour later, the constable and the detective left Grantham House after a few words with the Lord himself. "Remind me why we had to take so many interviews for a simple case of two servants running off together, guv."

"Because Lord Grantham knows people more important than you or I, Norris." Detective Vance knew this was less of an investigation and more of an act of mollification. They were only going through the motions of an investigation. Lord Grantham had pulled some strings and demanded Scotland Yard get involved in the disappearance of two servants even though the truth was pretty obvious. Vance would play his part and enjoy saying 'I told you so' when the pair showed up at a hotel in Bayswater.

-00-

An atmosphere was building around Grantham House. Thomas was jumpy and distracted, which was unsettling the rest of the staff. Mrs. Patmore's sharp tongue had been quieted. Miss Baxter had retreated into herself so far she was almost invisible. In short, the whole downstairs was on tenterhooks while Mrs. Butte tried to pretend it bothered her. The truth was, it invigorated her. All this fear was her doing and it made her feel powerful.

Thomas was well and truly spooked. He had not given Ivy's disappearance a second thought, but Jimmy had missed their meeting. Something was very wrong. Had Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes decided to take all his allies from him? If so, where were they sending them? It was difficult for Thomas to imagine the two heads of household resorting to secreting people away from Grantham House and Downton Abbey without mentioning it to Lord Grantham. But, if the Lord was in on the scheme, he would not have called in Scotland Yard.

Thomas needed to speed up his plans. The family would be out most of tomorrow. After the police had left, Thomas hurried to the telephone alcove on the ground floor and placed a quick call. He was a little more relaxed after making his arrangements for tomorrow. He would not have been relaxed if he had seen Mrs. Butte's greedy smile as she listened at the grate that funneled every word from the telephone alcove to the upstairs serving pantry.

-00-

The next day, an anxious looking Thomas made his excuses for going out on an errand before lunch. The main gossip at lunch concerned the quickly deteriorating state of mind of one under butler. No one commented on Mrs. Butte's absence. She often took the opportunity when the family was away to lunch with her own family, but that was not where she went today. Today, she rushed to arrive at Thomas' destination well before him.

Rising up from the Temple Underground station, Lucille walked with the river to her right for a time before heading up Carmelite Street. The offices for Carlisle Publishing were located in the Carlisle Building located on Whitefriars Street between Tudor and Fleet Street in Holborn. She smiled wryly at the brass plaque declaring the building's name. Mrs. Butte supposed she might name a building after herself if she had the means.

Sir Richard had certainly built himself an empire. Mrs. Butte knew he had built it on the backs of unfortunate people whose lives he had exposed for the world to mock. She knew that Mr. Carson and the Crawleys would be the next victims if Thomas had his way. Lucille was here to meet with the building's eponymous owner in order to prevent this. She had no real plan, but an eerie calm settled over her as she slipped into the stairwell, clutching her tiny handbag, after determining the location of Sir Richard's office.

-00-

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow. You certainly have given me a lot to consider. I will speak to my society editor and see what he thinks your information might be worth. We will be in touch shortly."

"I was rather hoping to handle this quickly. Things are becoming decidedly hostile at Grantham House." Thomas could not hide his nervous sweat from the cool Sir Richard. He wished he were not so desperate, but he could not understand what was happening at Grantham House and it had him very anxious.

"We will be in touch shortly." The publishing magnate repeated. It was unusual for him to handle such a trivial matter personally, but he still had a singular interest in the Crawley family. His bitterness had faded with time, but he still felt the damage to his ego acutely. Had enough time passed for him to publish what he knew of that arrogant minx's past without it seeming like a personal attack? After all, this under butler would take his story to another paper if Carlisle refused him.

Sir Richard sat back at his desk considering these questions. He swiveled his chair to look out the window. Another option occurred to him. He could call Mary, he could warn her. How would she receive his call? Carlisle knew Matthew had died almost two years ago. He had sent condolences and received a thank you note from her maid. He ought to have been insulted by that, but he doubted anyone had received anything more.

In his reverie, he barely looked up as the door to his office opened again. He had told Mrs. Jakes he would be working through lunch, as usual. He thought she had left after admitting Mr. Barrow.

"I'll take some tea, please, Mrs. Jakes." He ordered without turning from the window. Her steps retreated and the door closed again. A few moments later, it opened again and he turned towards her.

"Who are you?" He asked of the diminutive woman in front of him. She was holding a tea tray in front of her. There were two cups on the tray.

"Mrs. Jakes was not at her desk. You said you wanted tea. I thought I might join you." Mrs. Butte smiled sweetly.

"That does not answer my question. Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

"No wonder you do so well in this business." She tittered. "But you forgot When and Where."

"What?"

"No. When and where." Lucille could not help giggling. This was an absurd conversation. Sir Richard would no doubt agree with her, especially if he knew what was coming.

"Let's start again." Sir Richard sighed with exasperation. "Who are you?"

"I am a colleague of Mr. Barrow's. I've been helping him and I want to be sure I get my share. Also, I think there may be a few things he is not telling you about the Crawley family."

"I have not come to any agreement with Mr. Barrow yet. If he is your partner, you should accompany him to meetings, not follow him surreptitiously. If you do not trust him, that is none of my concern."

She set the tray on his desk beside his chair and began to pour the tea. "You have a point, Sir Richard. I will have to take this up with Thomas personally, eventually." She handed him a cup and saucer, but they slipped on the exchange and the tea spilled into his lap.

Jumping up, Carlisle cursed. "You stupid bitch!"

Lucille smiled as she took up a napkin and began to blot his pants as she pushed him back into his chair. "You're half right." Carlisle did not even feel the knife blade as it pierced his femoral artery just beside his groin. He was vaguely aware that the tea was growing warmer and the wet seemed to be spreading across his lap as she blotted. The great and powerful man was dead before he realized he was dying.

Lucille almost left him like that, but a thought occurred to her. She took out her knife again and took the sugar spoon from the tea tray.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Yes, I borrowed one of my favorite kills in cinema. It is from the movie Hannibal, where Dr. Lecter kills a pickpocket. It's very bloody, but did not seem overly violent; it was cold, impersonal and almost elegant.**

**If I start to enjoy this too much, I promise to pursue therapy;)**


	4. Thomas Under Pressure

Lord Grantham fought to keep his breakfast down as the Inspector told him about Sir Richard.

"He was found by his secretary after she returned from lunch. She had admitted Mr. Barrow before leaving for her break. There were no other appointments in his diary for lunch. We are going to need to talk to Mr. Barrow again."

"He was stabbed, you say? Did he not have time to leave a clue as who his attacker was?"

"The wound was very precise. It appears he died very quickly and the killer watched him die."

"How do you know that?" Robert was horrified at the notion.

"There were postmortem mutilations."

"Mutilations?" Robert's stomach lurched, but he kept his stomach's contents in place for the time being.

"It won't be in the papers, but his eyes and tongue were removed." The detective said in an almost bored voice. "It's not too hard to imagine the message the killer was trying to send. This is not going to be an easy case. Mr. Carlisle had many enemies."

"Then you are not convinced Barrow is responsible for this."

"He was the last identifiable person to see Mr. Carlisle alive, which is not a good thing for him, but that is not enough for an arrest. It is most important that he talk openly with us. If he did not commit the deed, he might have seen the person who did. I am still not convinced this is related to the other two cases." Detective Vance admitted. "Do you know what Mr. Barrow was doing at Mr. Carlisle's offices?"

"No. I was not aware anyone in this house still communicated with Sir Richard." Even Robert could imagine what Barrow had been doing at that hateful man's office. But what story was he selling? "I shall ring for him. Please, feel free to use this room."

-00-

Thomas was shaking by the time he returned back downstairs after speaking to Detective Vance. He quickly locked himself into the butler's office. What was going on? Two people tied to this household were missing and another had been brutally murdered. All three could be traced to him. If the detectives started digging, would they learn about the accusations Alfred had made after the incident with Jimmy?

_Oh, God, where was Jimmy?_ If only he would show up, Thomas' fears would disappear. Thomas felt he needed to get out of Grantham House. But to do that, he needed money and fast. Did Thomas dare approach any other newspapers right now? The answer was no. But someone else could sell the Crawley story. Thomas thought for a moment before unlocking the top drawer of his desk. None of his letters had gone missing since Ivy's disappearance, so he had not felt it necessary to relocate them. What had that silly girl wanted with his letters to Jimmy, anyway? She'd taken some of his other letters too. Thomas as worried what she might know. He hoped Ivy would show up soon. He didn't really care if she was alive or dead; he just wanted to know exactly where she was.

Underneath the letters Thomas located a small pocket journal containing his important contact information. Leafing through, he found what he was looking for very quickly. But would she be willing to help him? They had parted on bad terms, but he thought her dislike for the Crawleys would outweigh her disdain for him. She had sent him a forwarding address after all. Maybe they could help each other.

Before putting the journal away, Thomas jotted down another address from his book. She was a long shot indeed, but if he was to need her help, he would need to ask soon.

-00-

Before luncheon, Lord Grantham summoned Barrow to the small library that served as his study.

"You sent for me, My Lord?"

"Sit down, Barrow. Would you care for a whiskey?" It was a bit early in the day for a wee nip, but Barrow nodded gratefully. "Water?" Barrow shook his head.

Handing the younger man the drink, Robert took a sip from his own, freshly topped off glass. "There are some strange things going on in this household, Mr. Barrow."

"No argument here." Thomas agreed sardonically.

"I believe in your innocence in this matter, Barrow, but there are other matters in which I do not think you are quite so innocent."

Thomas made no reply, but sipped at the strong whiskey.

"I need you to tell me what you were doing in Sir Richard's office."

Thomas could not find the energy to lie. If His Lordship truly believed in Thomas' innocence, he might protect him and offer him the same assistance he offered Bates. "I wanted to know how much my knowledge of the family was worth."

Robert had not expected Barrow to be so forthcoming. "And, how much was it worth?"

"I was to expect a call today or tomorrow."

"And did you have a sum in mind, or were you going to sell to him regardless?"

"I needed the money. I wanted to get away from Grantham House as quickly as possible. I don't feel safe here anymore."

"Because of Ivy and James." Robert nodded. It was not a question. "You and I may be the only two who feel there is something quite wrong there. I don't for one instant believe that either of them ran away. Not that I would know Ivy. I thought she'd turned up again until Lady Grantham told me that was Madge.

"Still, Mrs. Patmore said she was a silly girl, but not likely to run off. As you suggested, I've contacted Lady Ansthrother, thinking James might have returned there, but she has not heard from him since last Valentine's day."

"He has no family, My Lord. There is nowhere else we can even start to look."

"Then we are left waiting, Barrow. Something of which I am not over fond." Thomas refilled both their empty glasses. Lord Grantham waved him off when he offered water. "I am bringing Carson back from the clinic. Mary reports he is as sound as a drum."

"I am glad to hear it, My Lord. I think that is wise." To Thomas' great personal shock, he meant it.

-00-

On the other side of the door, Lucille smiled a toothy grin. _He is coming home,_ she thought as she lifted the handkerchief to her face and inhaled the aroma of sandalwood. She would have to be very cautious once he returned. Though he did not look at her the same way he looked at the Scottish sorceress, Mr. Carson was very observant and always aware of her activities. It would never do for him to find out about her surprise gift to him before she was ready to put a bow on it.

Later that night, Mrs. Butte cursed as she opened the drawer that had previously held Thomas' letters. Now it was empty except for a few old ledgers. Thomas must have cleared it out in preparation for Mr. Carson's return tomorrow. It had been her nightly habit to come down to the butler's office with a glass of wine and read any new letters she could find.

With nothing new to read, Lucille went through the drawers methodically looking for anything out of place. In the topmost center drawer, she thought the stationary looked as though it had been moved. She took out the stack of cream colored paper and looked at it in the harsh electric light. She could see scribbles of indentions and could almost make out the words. Then an idea struck her. Lucille lit a match and lit the candle on the desk. Mr. Carson still distrusted electricity and insisted that every room contained candles and matches always at the ready.

Lucille held her wine glass in the flame and watched the bottom of the glass bowl blacken with soot. She wiped some of the soot from the glass and spread it over the page. Letters and numbers popped into stark relief, revealing two names and two addresses. One of the addresses was very familiar. Little did Thomas know that one of his intended cohorts had already received a letter from him. Possibly, the former Lady's Maid was already on her way to London. Mrs. Butte quickly traced the writing before draining the last bit of wine from her glass. It was still hot from the flame. The warm red liquid burned pleasantly as it slid down her throat like fresh blood.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN No deaths today, just some gruesome details about Sir Richard. The next death is pretty nasty (you have a 50% chance to guess who it is).**


	5. Laundry Day

**AN/ I'm back to corrupt you guys further;) And our mystery victim today is...**

* * *

><p>"Ah, Miss Braithwaite, we've been expecting you. Your letter arrived just this morning." Mrs. Butte had easily intercepted the letter written to Thomas. "Please follow me."<p>

Edna's owlish eyes blinked in confusion. Who was this strange little woman? She wondered, but she followed obediently as she was led into the laundry room.

"I am Mrs. Butte, the housekeeper here at Grantham House. I'll inform Mr. Barrow that you are here. Please have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Do you need anything for the baby?"

"No, thank you. We're fine." Edna said, still not sure of this odd housekeeper. Mrs. Butte left them and Edna looked around the room. Edna had not served with the Crawleys long enough to ever come to Grantham House. This laundry room was very different from the facility at Downton. It was much more compact, but had more sinks and wringers than at Downton. In one corner, under a great chimney, a large iron cauldron was bubbling over a low gas fire. It smelled of yesterday's laundry, stale bleach and lye. There was a grate in the floor and the large vessel was hung so that the water could be tipped out of the cauldron and directly into the drain.

Edna lifted little Tommy from her hip and lay him in a bin of freshly pressed linens before she sat down in a ladder backed chair. She looked sadly down at the little creature. She still could not find it in her heart to love this little boy. To her he was less a child and more the living evidence of life's terrible sense of irony. After she'd begun to suspect she was pregnant, she had reread her little book. She'd found a few footnotes that she'd overlooked before. From her initial reading, she thought she was safe from 'catching pregnant' if she was less than 14 days or more than 18 days removed from her last cycles ending. She had not read the notation at the end of the chapter saying that some women could be fertile as early as 10 days after and as late as 22 days after. That would have been helpful information fourteen months ago.

She'd been so careful, had planned so meticulously only to have that Hughes woman call her bluff and throw her out before she could secure her prize. The only person she'd managed to trick was herself. _So far_. She'd decided against confronting Mr. Branson until the child was developed enough to look like him. She would not be called a tramp and be turned away. If talking to Barrow now could injure the Crawleys and Mrs. Hughes, that was good enough for her. If Edna could line her pockets in the process, all the better.

Not that she was doing poorly. She had moved to High Wycombe, concocting a back story about a young husband killed in a mining accident in the north. A vicar and his wife had taken pity on her and hired her despite her advanced 'condition.' Since Tommy's birth, they'd helped her raise the boy. Their own children were grown and gone and they cherished both the baby and Edna. Edna resented them and found their attentions condescending and cloying. She'd often thought of leaving Tommy with them and heading to America, but she was going to try to catch Tom Branson once more before giving up on this scheme.

Her selfish thoughts of were interrupted by that ridiculous woman coming back.

"Oh, it's the silliest thing, he's stuck helping Mr. Bates right now, but he will be down shortly. He wanted me to ask you if you brought the documents he requested. "

"Of course. That is why I am here."

"Yes, yes, silly me. Here, let me help you with your coat." Edna rolled her eyes at the woman's fawning, but allowed herself to be spun round as her coat was taken off her and then inexplicably wrapped back around her, pinning her arms to her side. Also, the sleeves seemed to be wrapped around her throat. She started to call out, but her air was already cut off by the tightening coat. Edna tried to turn, but her knees were knocked out from under her from behind and she fell painfully to them on the stone floor. She felt one arm of the coat wrapped around her neck yet again.

Spots began to pop into her vision as she grew faint. Edna was only partially aware of Mrs. Butte cranking the coat tighter around her neck, using one of the rooms many laundry wringers. One of the coat arms was being pulled through the rolls while Mrs. Butte held the other arm of the coat wrapped around the crank itself.

Soon, Edna's lifeless body hung by her coat from the laundry wringer. Lucille hummed a merry tune as she searched Edna for the documents she had instructed the smug little minx to bring. After locating the birth certificate and Edna's letter to Mr. Branson, the euphoric housekeeper slung the body into the bubbling cauldron. The smell in the room changed almost imperceptibly. The smell was not at all remarkable in this context.

Lucille added more lye to the cauldron and placed the heavy lid on the large iron pot. Mrs. Butte had already warned the staff away from the laundry room today. The staff thought she was using her mother's secret recipe to get some of the tougher stains out of the table linens and sheets.

"Why Lady Mary was allowed to have currant jam with her breakfast in bed is a mystery for the ages," she had joked. Anna had laughed and defended her mistress' choice of jams.

Lucille had handled the laundry issues this morning. She fervently hoped that the newspaper article she'd read on Adolph Luetgert had been accurate. If this took longer than six hours, she might have some trouble. But not as much as Mr. Barrow would have.

Mrs. Butte looked down at the sleeping child. Being a mother herself, she did feel some tenderness for the wee lad. From what she'd heard of Edna, she'd done the boy a good turn. Quickly, she took the bassinet she'd hidden underneath one of the sinks and placed the child in it with an old flannel blanket her daughter had bought at a rummage sale two weeks ago. It should be untraceable.

Lucille read Edna's letter quickly before adding it to the basket along with the birth certificate. Edna's accusatory letter was perfect for the occasion. Nothing in the letter indicated that Edna had intended to stick around. Everything was falling into place just as Lucille had planned. She took this turn of luck as a sign from Providence that her actions were blessed and right. She was helping Mr. Carson, but she was also visiting holy vengeance on some of God's less deserving creatures.

_Amen. _

-00-

"He was at the backdoor, you say?" Lady Grantham looked down at the child with surprise. Carson held the basket gently and nodded.

Lord Grantham read the letter again. "I don't understand."

Carson looked guiltily to his employer. "My Lord, I believe it is possible that this child is indeed Mr. Branson's. The timing is correct."

"The timing? What do you know of this?" Lady Grantham demanded.

"I only learned of it recently, My Lady, but I understand Miss Braithwaite…" He didn't really know the details, so how was he to explain? "It was the last night of the house party."

"He did drink more than usual that night." Robert remembered. "But then, so did most of us." He added glibly.

"Robert! This is no joking matter. This is a child's life we are discussing!" Cora hissed, obviously ashamed to be having this conversation before a staff member, but thankful that staff member was Carson, who seemed to already know more than she did on the subject. "We should return to Downton at once."

"That may not be possible, my dear. The detectives have requested that certain members of the household not leave London." Robert informed her.

This was certainly news to Carson and Lady Cora. The former held his tongue as the latter made inquiries enough for them both. "You never said anything. Whom have they barred from leaving London?"

"Mr. Barrow, of course. Miss Baxter,"

"Baxter? What can they want with her?"

"I don't know. May I continue, my dear?" She gave him a shrug of permission. "Mrs. Patmore, Mary, Carson and myself."

"What? That is preposterous!"

"It is not preposterous. We are not all suspects, just people who knew Carlisle or who might have information about Ivy and James."

"Then we shall have to send for Tom." Cora said decisively. "I will not return to Downton without you. Or Baxter."

"Thank you, my dear, for listing me first." Robert said wryly.

-00-

By midnight, the lye had done its work. By one o'clock, the rest of the house was fast asleep. After emptying the cauldron into the drain, Lucille took the bones she had filtered out of the drain to the kitchen to grind them. Lucille headed up to bed by one thirty safe in the knowledge that Edna Braithwaite was now nothing more than sludge and dust.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I REALLY hope it goes without saying, but do NOT try any of this at home;) **

**I think we'll get a little more insight into Lucille in the next chapter. I knew this story would not have the following that the true 'Chelsie' stories have, but if you keep reviewing, I'll keep writing. **


	6. Home Life

"Mother?" Lucille called as she entered the house. "Nellie? Clive?"

"In here, mother," Nellie's voice called. Lucille felt guilty, hearing the weariness in the young girl's voice. Most of the year, Lucille was home in the evenings to help with all the little household matters, but during the Season, Mrs. Butte could only come home on her half day or during the odd luncheon. These months were especially taxing for the young girl. _Such a sweet and steady girl, _Lucille thought affectionately.

Mrs. Butte found her daughter in the kitchen, stirring a large pot that was either laundry or dinner. The question was answered when Nellie spooned a large, over used ham bone from the water. Lucille grimaced at the sight for some reason.

"Gran's in her study." Nellie said unnecessarily. Where else would her mother be?

"Has she been behaving herself?"

"She finished her last book. I tried to give her one of the old ones to read, but she recognized it right off, so I had to go out and buy a new one." Nellie apologized.

"Don't worry, my girl, it was six pence well spent." Lucille soothed her. "Any word from Clive?"

"He had a job yesterday. I assume he was paid." Nellie didn't have to say anything more. Lucille understood exactly what she was being told.

Clive had come back from France deeply affected by the war, emotionally and physically. The army had declared him fit, but their evaluations were based on interviews and examinations conducted while he was on so much morphine he hardly knew his own name. Now, in the real world, his every moment was filled with pain due to a back injury sustained in the waning days of the war. Whenever he was able to find work, his pay was immediately spent on the cheapest opiates he could find at a local flop house. If he had been paid today, they could expect to hear from him in a week or so.

"Never mind, love. God looks after fools and children." She gave her daughter a quick peck on the cheek before preparing a tea tray. "I'll take mother her tea and come join you in a tick."

Lucille climbed the narrow stairway into her mother's lair as Lucille thought of it. The rest of the house was kept fastidiously clean. Every surface was free from dust or even fingerprints, but her mother's room was the chaos that balanced the order of the rest of the house. She knocked on the door with her elbow before pushing into the room. Lucille was struck afresh by the scene; her mother sat in a small leather chair in a room filled top to bottom in dusty newspapers, paperback chap books and penny dreadful sheets. It always made Lucille think of Mrs. Haversham surrounded by decaying lace and dust and moldy food. Lucille had thought more than once that all of her problems could disappear with the flick of one match.

The table before her mother was the only clear space in the room. It only remained so through the determined actions of Nellie and Lucille. Evangeline Grosvenor would never have noticed one way or the other.

"Tea time, mum." Lucille whispered. Loud noises were not allowed upstairs. Evangeline did not look up from the fresh white and black pages before her. Lucille set the tea on the table and prepared a cup just the way her mother like, just a squeeze of lemon. She gently pulled the thin book from her mother's hand and replaced it with the cup. The cheap publication had already left black ink smudged on Evangeline's fingers.

As though she were awakening from a hypnotist's thrall, Evangeline's eyes began to clear as she recognized the object she now held. She sipped automatically from the cup and looked up at her daughter, slowly beginning to recognize her as well.

"Nellie?"

"No, it's Lucy, mum."

"Lucy? Ah, yes. You were gone off to the big house today. I've missed you. I wanted to tell you about this poor girl in Clapham. They found her tied to a wagon wheel…" Evangeline set down her tea and began to rummage through the pile of papers to her left. Dust rose up from the pile as she dug deeper. With unerring precision, Evangeline located the group of papers that she sought. Lucille accepted the bundle from her mother, seeing that they were clippings from an old horror novella. The line between penny press news and penny dreadful fiction had long disappeared in Evangeline's mind.

It was sad, but Lucille knew it was probably easier for her this way. It was easier to just accept that the world was a place where horrible and bloody things happened everyday to innocent people. It was easier than asking yourself why something terrible had been done to someone innocent that you loved. You don't have to remember one specific instance when your mind and your life are filled with numberless accounts of murder and violence. You can dilute your pain in a boundless sea of human atrocities.

Lucille looked at the one shelf in the room not covered with dust. The books and articles here were removed and read on a weekly, if not daily basis. They were the articles and papers that described the facts and speculations of Lucille's father's death in increasingly more sensationalized detail.

The stories had begun innocently enough in the main press.

_'Henry Grosvenor, local merchant was brutally murdered in his place of business last Saturday in the early hours of the morning. Persons close to the victim speculate this was the culmination of Mr. Grosvenor's resistance to the pressures of a local gang who has been extorting 'protection' money from neighborhood businesses. There were no witnesses. No arrests have been made.'_

But the penny press had been hungry for something sensational and the tale of a butcher being butchered was too delicious to pass up. They'd had a field day with their nonsensical headlines, _'Sweet Meats for the Sweet' 'Death Grind Gang' 'What's in the Sausage?' 'Cleaver of Death'_

Some of the tamer ones kept the details vague and let the mind of the reader fill in the gruesome particulars.

_'Though unsubstantiated, it is suspected that the perpetrators made use of Mr. Grosvenor's tools of the trade. Certain body parts were removed and the sausage grinder looked to have been freshly used.'_

But the stories written over a month after his death were so far removed from the facts of the case Lucille would find it laughable if the victim were not her own father.

_"There are an astonishing number of missing persons unaccounted for in this area of London. This reporter cannot help but speculate that Mr. Grosvenor had been cooperating with the gang for some time, helping them dispose of the undesirable evidence of their activities. But this time, the butcher was on the wrong end of the grinder." _

What none of the stories mentioned, because no one knew, was that there had indeed been a witness. Hidden amongst the barrels of salt pork, Evangeline had seen everything that transpired. Not even the police knew she had been there. The shock had turned her almost catatonic and all the authorities' questions had been handled by a twelve year old Lucille.

Gradually, Evangeline had regained her voice and some of her sense. Evangeline had told Lucille about the attack in painstaking, gory detail a thousand times since then. They had tortured her husband, first beating him before putting his hand in the grinder while he still breathed. It was all for money. He had already been paying them, but they wanted more. They wanted to scare him and all the other local merchants. Evangeline was convinced that they had only meant to take his hand, but they had gone too far and he had bled to death before they were done with their games.

'They' had been members of the Hoxton Gang. Many of the gang had eventually been brought to justice, but not for murder. They had confessed to multiple counts of extortion and corruption, but most of them had escaped the hangman's noose.

Since her husband's murder and the subsequent coverage of it, Evangeline had become obsessed with the macabre. She began by buying all the penny press papers she could find. When that did not satisfy her, she began to buy the penny dreadful publications. She had been absurdly proud when one story 'based on true events' was suspiciously like her husband's murder. She had read all of these stories to her young daughter. It was in these pages Lucille had first heard of Adolph Luetgert and garrote wires and cannibalism. Lucille could name a hundred ways to kill and almost as many ways to dispose of a body. She had learned it all at her mother's knee.

Lucille had done her best to keep the business open and her mother functional, but eventually, they had been forced to sell the shop to Mr. Lawrence Butte, a large man in his late thirties who kindly let Mrs. Grosvenor and Lucille remain in the rooms above the shop. His motivation for doing so became apparent as soon as Lucille turned fourteen. Mr. Butte asked young Lucille to marry him. Knowing a refusal meant she and her mother would be turned out, Lucille had agreed. Evangeline was in such a fragile state, it was the only thing Lucille could do.

Lawrence had not been a terrible husband initially. Lucille had helped out around the shop as she raised their two children. Eventually, the difference in their ages led Lawrence to become insanely jealous of every man who came through the shop. He began to threaten and frighten off their regular customers. Despite Lucille's hard work, the fortunes of the shop diminished and Mr. Butte began to drink more.

The alcohol fueled Mr. Butte's impotent rage until he began to beat his wife on a regular basis. Ever a meek and helpful woman, Mrs. Butte had at first accepted this treatment as a dutiful wife, but Evangeline had seen what was going on. Even if she could not communicate directly with her daughter anymore, when Lucille took refuge in her mother's room, Evangeline would tell her stories of wives who had killed their husbands and gotten away with it. Lucille had resisted her mother's influence for almost two years until one night during the war, Lawrence was in a fine fit and threw her against the butcher block. As he had turned to walk away from her, from the ground, Lucille had grabbed his foot and tripped him. Mr. Butte had hit his head on the edge of the counter and had been knocked unconscious. Thinking quickly, Mrs. Butte had managed to prop him up on a dolly just high enough to slip a cleaver underneath him. Then, she had dropped his heavy body onto the knife before walking calmly upstairs to bed.

Mr. Butte had been found the next morning by his the delivery boy. The matter had been ruled an accident. Mrs. Butte had taken over the business, but it had been so poorly run in recent years, their debt was very great. None of the creditors were willing to take a chance on a woman butcher, so the debts were called in. Lucille had been forced to sell to satisfy them. She had moved her family to a smaller house and began working as a day servant to make ends meet.

Mrs. Butte was not a woman who would dwell on the past. She did not pity herself or her mother. Life happened. Either you survived or you didn't. It was pointless to dwell on the inequities of Fate or to hope for revenge on the agents of Fate that impacted one's life. Lucille herself was now an agent of Fate. Life had prepared her for this job by providing her with a thorough and vast knowledge of death thanks to her mother's madness.

"Mum, I was looking for that story about the farmer from Canada. Do you remember the one?"

Evangeline's face lit up with the smile she offered her daughter. "Yes. That was a good one." She shuffled over to one of the shelves and thumbed quickly through her larger 'true life' novels. She found what she sought and handed it to Lucille, still beaming. "Here it is, Lucy love."

Mrs. Butte gathered up the forgotten tea. Before heading downstairs for her own tea with Nellie, Lucille kissed her mother's cheek. "Thank you, mum."

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN So ****_that's_**** where Lucille is getting all of her sick and twisted information and more than a little of her psychosis. Plus, she is a butcher's daughter and acted as a butcher for many years, so she knows how to bleed an animal (Sir Richard). So far, she's only killed people I don't like, so I'm fairly sympathetic to her cause. We'll see if that changes when she runs out of guilty victims… **

**Next victim…absolute 'meta' silliness.**


	7. A Bit of a Bully

"Did you enjoy your half day, Mrs. Butte?" Mr. Carson said conversationally as they both stood in the servant's courtyard.

"I spent it with my family, Mr. Carson, as I usually do."

"How is young Nellie? We haven't seen her this Season. I know we've been busy, but she is always welcome to drop by for a meal with you once a week."

"That's very kind, Mr. Carson, but she's busy looking after my mother."

"On her own? She can't be much older than fourteen."

"She is fifteen."

"How quickly they grow up. I'm still picturing that little girl that used to follow you around on your rounds." Mr. Carson smiled kindly.

Lucille was enjoying this conversation, but her mind was frantic. _Why is he out here in the courtyard?_ A terrible thought occurred to her. Perhaps Mr. Carson was here for the same reason she was, he was waiting for the evening post. Mrs. Butte had met the mailman morning and evening for the post faithfully for the past week. The poor young man was starting to think she was sweet on him.

Mrs. Butte did not want to think why Mr. Carson might be so eager for the post. He was probably waiting to hear from pretty Mrs. Mac Scottish Britches. The thought made her heart turn cold. How could he be so cordial to her as he waited for word from his Scotch tramp?

"Did Mr. Branson arrive today?" She asked, trying to turn the conversation to something that might be useful to her.

"Not yet. He should be in London first thing tomorrow and will be meeting with Murphy about what is to be done. I suppose the first step will be to determine if the child is truly his. Beyond that, I've no idea."

"It's an unsavory business, Mr. Carson." Mrs. Butte shook her head in dismay before adding quietly, "I understand you knew about it."

Carson looked guilty. Mrs. Butte knew that he only knew about it because the madame of Downton knew about it. Really, what kind of household were they running out there in Yorkshire? Apparently, wholesome entertainment was in short supply. "I learned of the incident well after the fact, Mrs. Butte. No one suspected there was a child. No one thought Miss Braithwaite was foolish enough to let herself- that is, no one thought- well, you know. Miss Braithwaite is not a fool, she is a calculating opportunist."

_Not anymore. _ "I understand. Why don't you go back inside, Mr. Carson? You must have better things to do than wait for the mail. I am already waiting for the post myself, Mr. Nash is to bring me some stamps to purchase."

Realizing that she was correct, and unable to explain why he was waiting so anxiously for the post, Charles agreed and went back into Grantham House to correct some of the errors Mr. Barrow had made in the house accounts.

Lucille sighed with relief as Mr. Carson left her to her vigil. She needed to be able to peruse all the letters to Thomas in private. It would never do for her to miss _his_ letter. _That would be awkward, to say the least._

Mr. Nash sighed when he saw that she was waiting for him yet again. Honestly, she was old enough to be his mother! Though, if he admitted to himself, her attentions were flattering; it was not as though he had any other admirers. She wasn't an unattractive woman, he confessed. Mr. Nash was not a tall man, so her proportions did appeal to him, but her behavior was so odd. _"What are you thinking, man?"_

"Good evening, Mrs. Butte."

"Good evening, Mr. Nash. I hope you've good news for us today."

"I hope so too." He handed her the large bundle of letters for Grantham House. She took them swiftly and began to rifle through them, ignoring him completely. "Shall I see you tomorrow, Mrs. Butte?"

"Mmhmm." She answered dismissively as she continued to flip through the post. Mr. Nash began to climb the stairs back to street level more than a little disappointed in his reception. But then, she seemed to find what she was looking for and she chuckled to herself. Mrs. Butte looked up at him with a smile that he found very charming. "You have indeed brought good news, Mr. Nash. I shall have a treat for you tomorrow morning."

"I look forward to it, Mrs. Butte." He answered honestly. Maybe he would encourage this. If he got a few pastries and an occasional coffee out of it, what was the harm?

When Mr. Nash was gone, Lucille tore open the envelope she had intercepted and read the letter with delight. He wanted to meet with Mr. Barrow. In a move that was predictable, he had set the time and the place. Lucille considered this challenge for a moment and then decided it was worth the risk. It wouldn't be too hard to convince him to come back to Grantham House, and then- _What was good for a goose is as good for a gander_, Lucille considered.

Lucille had also been pleased to note that there was no letter for Mr. Carson from Downton.

-00-

"I am sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Bryant. Mr. Barrow has thought better of communicating with you. He does not want to see you."

Anna's description of Mr. Bryant had been spot on, he was a blustery, bossy bully with very little grace and absolutely no time for his inferiors.

"But he must see me. I demand that he does. He cannot just threaten to expose my grandchild's origins to the world for his own amusement and then refuse to see me."

"I don't think he is planning to expose anyone but the Crawley family. He has decided not to use any names." Mrs. Butte informed him sensibly. "It will be enough that he can say an illegitimate child was conceived under the negligent watch of Mrs. Hughes and the butler."

"Any self-respecting paper will demand corroboration. And the lesser papers will demand a name." Mr. Bryant countered. "I must make sure that Mr. Barrow understands that I can either make life very comfortable for him or very uncomfortable."

"I believe he does understand that, Mr. Bryant, but, if I may be honest, you are the least of his worries."

"I must meet him today!"

"He is far too busy at Grantham House to meet you anywhere." She baited the trap.

"Then I shall come to the house and speak to him directly."

"How will you do that without risking exposure? It will be considered odd if you arrive at the front door and demand to speak to the under butler." Mr. Bryant's face grew red at this reminder of the obvious. Then he fixed Lucille with a terrible glare.

"_You_ can sneak me in the servant's entrance and then bring him down to see me. I shall make it worth your while." SNAP! The trap was so effective, the prey had no idea.

Lucille pretended to struggle with her decision. In reality, she was struggling to keep from laughing at this man who was all but begging her to be killed. "Who am I to refuse a reasonable request?" She demurred.

When they arrived at Grantham House, Mr. Bryant cooperated perfectly. He snuck into the laundry room and waited patiently with his cup of tea. By the time Mrs. Butte returned to inform him that Mr. Barrow was still busy, the arsenic had done its work. Lucille took the cash from Mr. Bryant's wallet and then hoisted Mr. Bryant into the cauldron of hot lye. She left him to stew in his own juices until bedtime. This time, instead of grinding the bones, Mrs. Butte simply broke them into pieces and threw them into the boiler. Concealment was less important now. It was time to turn up the heat on Thomas. She had ensured that any evidence found would not lead back to her, but would only incriminate Thomas further.

-00-

Thomas' personal appearance would not inspire one to believe his innocence. He had slept very little in the past week. He spent his evenings pacing his room and pulling at his hair. Mr. Carson had scolded him numerous times concerning his appearance.

Thomas' mind raced to think who might be behind these strange occurrences. Edna's baby being abandoned had frightened him more than he could say. She had written to him and he to her. As a precaution, the day after the baby appeared, Thomas had burned his letters from her, but he had no control over what she had done with his letters to her. Thomas knew that she was not planning to simply abandon the child. He knew she still had her sights on Mr. Branson. Was this some game of hers; let Branson bond with the child and then come back to claim it? It wasn't a bad plan, but it seemed too patient for Edna. She was not one for waiting.

Thomas suspected foul play. With all these occurrences adding up, Thomas suspected there was a murderer in the house. He could think of only two people in the household capable of murder. Of those two people, Mr. Bates seemed the most likely to hold a grudge against Thomas. Thomas knew he could not convince Lord Grantham of Mr. Bates' guilt without proof. He would have to be careful.

His thoughts were interrupted by the deep voice of Mr. Carson. "Mr. Barrow, there is a constable here to speak with you."

"With me?" Thomas asked in terror.

"I am afraid so. He said you should bring your hat and coat."

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I love the idea of Jim Carter's significant other's character offing Phyllis Logan's significant other's character. And I hated Mr. Bryant, so…bye-bye, Mr. Bryant.**


	8. Jimmy Surfaces

"Yes. That's him." Thomas choked out, fighting down the urge to vomit.

"I'm afraid we'll need you to state his full name, Mr. Barrow." Constable Norris reminded him, gently.

"This is the body of James Montgomery Kent." Thomas lost his battle with his stomach, emptying its contents into a pail in the corner of the river morgue. Jimmy's beautiful face was barely recognizable after spending so long in the river. _How had this happened? What was going on? _Thomas trembled as he wiped his mouth coarsely on the back of his sleeve, also seeking to surreptitiously wipe the tears from his eyes. He closed his eyes to try to blot out the memory of the sight, but that only seemed to burn the image more permanently into his mind. The mark on Jimmy's neck had not escaped Thomas' notice. This was not a question of a man who had slipped from a bridge or was caught unawares by the Thames tide. This was murder. Tears spilled from Thomas' shut eyes. If his greed and machinations had brought this upon Jimmy, how could he ever forgive himself?

Detective Vance watched all of this with interest. All they had at the moment was circumstantial evidence, and it all pointed unerringly to the Underbutler of Grantham House. But, to the detective's mind, Thomas' reactions were not those of a killer.

"When you are recovered, we will have a few more questions for you, Mr. Barrow." Vance said calmly.

Thomas nodded and tried to compose himself. The dark eyed detective left the morgue while the constable waited for Thomas. Finally, needing desperately to escape the smell of the room, Thomas stumbled to the stairs that led up to the fresh air of the land of the living.

They offered him a mug of weak, tepid tea. "I know this is difficult, Mr. Barrow, but there are some things you have neglected to tell us."

Thomas nodded stupidly. His only hope of salvation was to be completely honest with the authorities. Whoever was perpetrating these crimes was much more ruthless than Thomas was prepared to be. They also had the advantage of him because he had no idea who they might be. His earlier suspicions of Mr. Bates disappeared. This was beyond anything Mr. Bates could have done. It seemed beyond his other suspect as well, but then, he didn't really suspect her so much as her family.

"When did you last see Mr. Kent?"

"The day he returned to Downton. That would be two Tuesday's ago."

The detective made a notation on his notepad.

"But you've been writing to him." It was not a question. Thomas did not reply. "When did you last hear from him?"

"On the day that he died, I received a telegram asking me to meet him at the National Gallery at two thirty."

"And did he show up?"

"Obviously not!" Thomas gestured back towards the morgue.

"There is nothing obvious about this situation, Mr. Barrow. Do you still have that telegram?"

"No."

"And you did not mention this to us when we asked about Mr. Kent before. Did it slip your mind?"

"No, but I did not realize he was in danger. I would have cooperated fully if I'd realized how serious this was."

"We'll never know, will we, Mr. Barrow?" He let Thomas squirm before sliding a worn piece of stationary across the table for Thomas to consider. "What do you make of this?" The ink had run, but not beyond the point of legibility.

Thomas stared in terror at the note. The writing looked to be in his hand, but he had never written those words. He looked up at the detective in a panic. "I never wrote that! It isn't from me!"

"We are going to need a sample of your writing, Mr. Barrow." Vance said cooly, offering a pen and paper. At this very moment, his team was combing the area around the Pelican Steps. He did not hold out much hope of them finding anything. His only clue was this letter.

"It looks like my handwriting." Thomas admitted. He quickly rewrote the note. Though his hand was still shaking from all the emotions currently assaulting him, the similarities were unmistakable even to an untrained eye. "But I did not write that. Someone is trying to frame me. I will cooperate in whatever way I can. I want to find Jimmy's killer. I would never have hurt him."

"Because you have feelings for him?" The constable asked. "We know about the complaint in Yorkshire. We've spoken to the authorities there and it was mentioned by several of the staff at Grantham House."

"Yes, I do have feelings for him. Or at least- I did." Thomas' voice broke with pain. "So you see, I could not have hurt him."

Detective Vance gave a sad smile. "If only that were true, Mr. Barrow. I've found that people are more than capable of hurting those they care for."

"But you must believe me, I did not do this." He pled desperately.

"I want to believe you, Mr. Barrow, I truly do, but you are going to have to help me understand. You must be one hundred percent honest with me. If I find that you have lied to me about anything, I will consider that an admission of guilt. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Constable Norris saw the desperation in their suspect. Despite the evidence they had, Norris had to agree with the detective's instinct that there was much more going on here than unrequited love.

"He was seeing this Ivy girl?" Vance asked matter of factly.

"He had been. But he grew frustrated. She was not as forthcoming with her favors as he had hoped. She was about to move to America. He had given up on her."

"Was he seeing anyone else?"

"Not that I know of. I believe he still writes to Lady Anstruther, his former employer."

"Did he have a relationship with Lady Anstruther?"

"I don't know. He used to hint that she was very fond of him, but he never admitted anything more to me."

"You know that this looks very badly for you, Mr. Barrow."

"Yes, I can see that." Thomas whispered.

"Is there anything else you can tell us? You seem to think someone is trying to frame you. Can you elaborate?"

"It's rather a long story." Thomas said tentatively.

"We have time." The constable smiled encouragingly. "And so do you."

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN Just a short one today. The net is tightening, but there is a little more groundwork to lay before the big confrontation…the deaths are not done...  
><strong>


	9. The Pressure Builds

Dinner upstairs was a tense affair. Lord Grantham spoke very little, lost in his own thoughts. He had not shared the particulars of his conversation with the detective with the rest of the family, only the broad strokes, informing them that James was dead and foul play was suspected. Robert was still trying to ascertain the ominous motives behind their questions.

The detective had wanted to know, did anyone in the household have a history of forgery? Robert had lied and said no. Whatever this business was, he trusted that Bates was not involved. But would his lying make things worse for Bates down the road? Only Rose and Mary knew about the forgery and perhaps they both believed the story of 'a friend' Bates had offered. Robert knew better, but had allowed Bates the lie to protect his dignity.

But even with that, the detective seemed interested Bates. He had delved into the details around Bates' exoneration. The implication seemed to be that Bates had escaped on a technicality. Then there was the business with Mr. Green, whom Lord Grantham could not even remember. He could hardly believe the things the detective had told him. Anna, raped? During the house party? Could it be true, or was it just Thomas' desperate attempt to save his own skin? He would need to talk to Carson later.

They had also asked specifically about Miss Baxter. What should he tell Cora? If Baxter was involved, was it safe to allow her to be alone with his wife? There were two people dead now. Whoever was behind it was not to be taken lightly. But surely these crimes were not perpetrated by a woman, especially one as meek as Miss Baxter.

The detective had at first refused to directly answer any questions about Barrow. When would he be released? Were they charging him with anything? Could he send a lawyer to assist? Lord Grantham had finally ascertained that Barrow had not been arrested and a lawyer was not necessary, for the moment.

The rest of the family had respected Lord Grantham's disinclination for conversation during dinner. Instead, they had occupied themselves by trying to form a link between James and Sir Richard. They struggled to remember everything about James that had seemed sinister. By pudding they were convinced he had been done in by a jealous husband.

-00-

Mr. Carson stood at the head of the table, looking gravely at the staff. He had told both Mrs. Butte and Mrs. Patmore the news already, hoping they could help comfort the younger maids. Mr. Molesley had been informed as he served, but had agreed to keep quiet until a formal announcement was made.

"His Lordship has informed me that James has been found." Mr. Carson held up his hand to still the excitement before the information could be misunderstood. "I am very sorry to tell you that he was found _dead._ I have no more information at this time."

"Any word of Mr. Barrow?" Miss Baxter asked nervously.

"None yet, I am afraid." Mr. Carson admitted as he sat down. "They are still questioning him, but I gather he has not been arrested."

It hurt Mr. Carson to see how this lack of information disturbed everyone. He was frustrated that there was no way he could calm the unease that had settled over his staff. They were all equally powerless.

After servant's dinner, Baxter went upstairs to prepare Lady Grantham for bed. She was bewildered to find that Lady Mary was present as well. Both women insisted that Mary was just talking to her mother about her suitors, but their conversation was forced and they watched Baxter with interest as she moved about the room. Used to being ignored, especially by Lady Mary, Baxter knew there was something wrong.

Thomas had been gone the whole afternoon. It was reasonable to think he had been talking to the police the whole time. It was also reasonable to assume he had given up her secret in an attempt to appease the police and exonerate himself. Did the family know then? Baxter felt like one of those characters in a play that everyone knew was doomed; everyone but the character, that is.

"Will that be all, milady?"

"Yes, thank you, Baxter. I think I shall breakfast downstairs tomorrow morning."

"Very good, milady."

-00-

"Good morning, Mr. Nash."

"Good morning, Mrs. Butte. You are looking very nice this morning."

"It is kind of you to say so, Mr. Nash." She smiled coquettishly. "I've some coffee for you, if you can spare a moment."

"I can only stop for a moment, but coffee would be very welcome, thank you." Mr. Nash had decided that it was rather nice to have a woman fuss over him. He smiled gratefully to Mrs. Butte as he sipped his morning coffee as he had for the past week.

Their friendly moment was disturbed by Mr. Molesley rushing out of the backdoor. "Did she come out this way?" He asked in a panicked voice. "Did you see her?"

"Did who come out this way? Whom are we meant to have seen?" Mrs. Butte demanded.

"Miss Baxter, she's gone!" Molesley cried, waving a sheet of paper at them and then dashing up to the street level. He rushed off down the street calling for her. "Phyllis!"

TBC...

* * *

><p><strong>AN We lost another one, but at least she left of her own free will. It's probably safer that way. We'll find out her secret in the next chapter!**


	10. Phyllis

Mr. Molesley sat before Mr. Carson, Mrs. Butte and Mrs. Patmore in the butler's pantry. Mrs. Patmore had given him a very strong tea with whiskey and his nerves seemed to be recovering.

"You saw her letter, Mr. Carson. She didn't do this, she's just afraid. We have to find her.

"She explicitly asked us not to try and find her, Mr. Molesley."

"But she might be in danger." The poor man moaned.

"I am afraid she probably is, but we don't even know where to start. Maybe Mr. Barrow can help us if he is released, but even then, I am not sure what we can do for her."

"We have to let her know that we will protect her!"

"Of course we will, Mr. Molesley." Mrs. Patmore insisted. "Won't we, Mr. Carson?"

"In so far as we can, but I doubt that will comfort her much." Carson said sadly. "Mrs. Butte? You have been very quiet. Have you nothing to add."

Lucille was only vaguely aware of the simpering footman before her and even less aware of Mr. Carson and Mrs. Patmore. She still held Miss Baxter's letter to Mr. Molesley in her hand. With glassy eyes, she read it again.

_'Joseph, _

_I have feared this day ever since I arrived at Downton. At first, I did not want to leave because I needed the employment, but now that my past has caught up to me yet again, I find my greatest regret is losing your friendship. It took me so long to stand up to Thomas, to realize that if he revealed my secret, he would implicate himself as well. You gave me that strength Joseph and I shall never forget you for that. How could I have imagined the terrible events that would drive him to reveal me? But even if he has not betrayed my secret, I must leave. I fear that it is my presence that has brought about the recent violence that has visited Grantham House._

_I hardly know where to begin, but I should start with my main deception. My name is not Phyllis Baxter. My name is Phyllis Fletcher but I was born Phyllis Hoxton. My father and uncles are the heads of the Hoxton mob of Soho. I was forced to marry when I was very young. My husband was in the gang and is currently twelve years into a forty-three year sentence for his role in the violent robbery of a rival gang's gambling parlor. Innocent people were caught in the crossfire._

_Even before my husband's crime and arrest, I had left him and my family. I lived as a domestic servant, using my mother's maiden name. I worked briefly with Thomas, but it did not take him long to uncover my secret. My husband's trial was in the papers and I could not help but follow it closely. Thomas was suspicious and eventually found me out. He threatened to tell my family where I was, but I convinced him not to. I forged a letter of recommendation that helped him secure his new position at Downton. _

_We have not kept in close correspondence since then, but Thomas followed my career and always seemed to know where I was. When he contacted me not quite two years ago, he knew I was between jobs. I knew it was not wise to work so closely with someone who knew my secret, but I was desperate for work._

_I have remained hidden from my family for almost fourteen years, I had begun to hope that they would never find me, but obviously they have. They are ruthless and they are capable of unspeakable atrocities. I will not bring that to Lady Grantham's doorstep. I hope when I am gone from the house, you will all be safe again. Please, do not try to find me. It is better this way._

_I am so sorry, Joseph. Please forgive me. I know I led you on, but I truly enjoyed spending time with you. Your gentle spirit and kindness were so different from anything in my experience. You and you alone have renewed my faith in humanity. I wish you all the joy in the world, you deserve it. Never forget that._

_Though I have no right to claim it, I am and forever shall be your remorseful friend,_

_Phyllis.'_

Lucille fought to control her temper. With one name, her whole world had begun to fracture; Hoxton. Miss Baxter was a Hoxton. The opportunity to revenge herself on the family responsible for her father's death had slipped through her fingers. Her mind raced, thinking of all the terrible ways she could have disposed of Phyllis Hoxton.

"Mrs. Butte?" Carson asked again. "Are you quite well?"

Pulling herself together, she nodded and handed the letter back to Mr. Carson. "It's just such a shock. She is such a sweet woman, to think she came from such a violent family."

"Do you know anything about this Hoxton mob?" Carson asked her.

Lucille shrugged. "They used to be in the paper more often, but they are still around. They are just smarter about getting caught now."

"Are they as ruthless as Miss Baxter said?"

"I believe they are, Mr. Carson."

"Mr. Molesely," Carson began kindly. "I think we are best off letting the police handle this. We will tell them everything that we know and hope that they can be discreet."

"But she's out there; afraid and alone." Joseph sobbed miserably.

"But if we cannot find her, then neither can they." Beryl offered. "That's something at least."

"I shall give your letter to the authorities, Mr. Molesley. You should take the rest of the day off. You are in no fit state to serve." Carson said sensibly. "If you get it in your head to go looking for her, please do not go alone," he added.

Molesley nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Mr. Carson."

Carson left them swiftly. His Lordship must be informed and the authorities contacted. As soon as he was gone, the women began to fuss over Molesley.

"I'm fine." Joseph insisted. He needed to find her, but he had no idea of where to begin. He wracked his brain, trying to remember anything she had said about London in their long hours of conversation. He knew that she had lived in London before moving to Yorkshire. Or so she had told him. Maybe everything had been a lie. For now, it did not matter. She was in danger, he must help her.

"I have to go." He took the last swig of his whiskey tea and stood to leave.

"You heard Mr. Carson." Mrs. Patmore panicked, "You should not go alone."

"I shall go with you, Mr. Molesley."

"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Butte. Thank you."

-00-

"Not another one." Robert groaned. "My dear, this is getting to be ridiculous."

"Robert! I think you have missed the main point here. For the past eighteen months, I have been at the mercy of a daughter of a notorious crime family!"

Mary patted her mother's hand tenderly and exchanged a knowing look with her father.

"Yes, yes, I do know that and I am relieved that you are unharmed, my dear, but I doubt you were in any real danger. You cannot think she had anything to do with these deaths. She was afraid of her own shadow. She seems to have fled because she thinks someone is coming after her or because she knew her secret would soon be discovered."

"And Barrow knew all along!" Cora fumed. "Robert, he simply must go!"

"Oh, without question, but we have to keep him here as long as the police need to keep tabs on him."

"Is that safe?" Mary asked.

"After speaking to the detectives, I'd be more easily convinced of Baxter's guilt than Barrow's."

"It cannot be Baxter. She could not hurt a fly." Mary said dismissively.

"That's what I think." Her father agreed.

"Then is it her family, Robert? If so, where do we find them and how can we stop them?"

"I wish I knew, my dear."

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN So there's _one_ of my theories for Miss Baxter's big secret. Another one will be surfacing in my other 'wading' fic in the next few days. In this fic, do we want Mr. Molesley to find Miss Baxter or not?**

**Thank you to those of you following this offshoot. It has not been as bloody as I anticipated (Lucille was just too efficient) but things could change very soon.**


	11. Elsie Returns

"Isn't Mr. Molesley with you, Mrs. Butte?" Mrs. Patmore asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she immerged from the kitchen. Luncheon had just been taken upstairs.

"He said he needed some time alone to think. We walked to the river, just in case she tried to take the easy way out."

"I don't know as I'd call that easy." Beryl wrinkled her nose at the idea. "But he shouldn't be alone. Not in his state of mind and not with those mob thugs out there! Lady Mary told Anna poor Jimmy had been garroted and dumped in the Thames. That seems low, even for their sort."

Mrs. Butte bristled to hear her handy work so disparaged, but she could hardly defend it now. "You're right, Mrs. Patmore, but I didn't leave him alone. I left him at the local and asked the barkeep to look after him and send him home when he'd had enough. When I left him, he was nursing a hard cider."

_That sounded like Mr. Molesley alright,_ Beryl thought. "Poor man, he really just cannot catch a break. Just when things were looking up for him, he finds out that the woman he fancies is married to a thug who is rotting away in prison and her family may be systematically killing people associated with her."

"Yes. Poor man." Lucille found it hard to find any sympathy for Mr. Molesley. She had spent a frustrating morning trying to get him to remember a name or a landmark that Miss Baxter might have mentioned. But he could not think of a one. He had spent the whole morning alternately moping and grousing. At one point, as they were checking the river, Mrs. Butte had been tempted to give him a little shove as he leaned out over the water for a better view. It would have been efficient and effective, but there was still the possibility that Mr. Molesley might be useful. And Lucille would be the last person to speak to Mr. Molesley, which would put her on the suspect list, which was absolutely unacceptable.

Lucille could not afford to be distracted by a brokenhearted footman. She had to refocus and finish off Thomas quickly so she could turn her attention to Miss 'Baxter'. Helping Mr. Carson was still important, but revenging her father was suddenly much more important. Fate had brought Miss Baxter into Lucille's sphere for a reason. Lucille now believed that, though sometimes slow and difficult to see, justice would always come to those who are patient and are willing to prove themselves worthy.

Now was the time to wrap up Mr. Barrow's fate good a tight. Lucille knew it was possible that Thomas would be released from the authorities soon. She knew they did not have enough evidence against him yet. All the evidence they needed was hidden ineffectively in a dusty attic room of Grantham house, if they only bothered to look.

"Was there something else I can help you with?" Mrs. Patmore looked at the housekeeper warily.

"No. I am sorry, Mrs. Patmore, I was just woolgathering. There is so much happening around here, but we must still run a household, mustn't we?"

"Too true. Let those upstairs do the worrying. We're too busy down here." With that, Beryl retreated back into her kitchen to start on the tea sandwiches.

-00-

"What the devil are you doing here?" Charles was as agitated as Elsie had ever seen him. He paced furiously around his pantry, apoplectic with rage. Elsie was disappointed with her reception, to say the least.

"Her Ladyship needs a maid. They sent word first thing this morning and requested that I come back with Mr. Branson. I am to fill the position until a replacement can be found."

"And who is going to come into a household where servants are disappearing?" Charles bellowed. "It is not safe here. I should have expected you to realize that, Elsie. You should have stayed at Downton. You should have said no."

"I wanted to be with my husband, who I thought would be glad to see me." She put her hands determinately on her hips.

Charles grabbed her firmly, almost violently, by the arms. "People are dead, Elsie! Dead! Murdered! I want you as far away from this as possible." He looked desperately into her face. Finally, she saw that he was not angry with her; he was afraid for her. She reached up to touch his face.

"And I want you far away from it too, but you are here doing your job and so am I. Besides, I would rather be here with you than sitting, powerless in Yorkshire."

Charles had to accept that she had a point. He pulled her into his arms and almost crushed her with his protective embrace. "Of course I am glad to see you. I have missed you, but I don't know what I would do if something were to happen to you. I've already proven that I am not capable of protecting the people under my care."

"If this is about Anna, you were not the only one who was deceived."

"That is very little comfort, but it is not only Anna. Now, there is Ivy and James and Miss Baxter."

"It is a terrible business, but I don't see how we could have prevented any of that. We still are not sure exactly what has happened." She forced him to loosen his grip on her as she pushed back from him slightly. She kissed the down turned corner of his mouth, trying to dispel the worry on her man's face. "Now, you must go ring the changing gong and I must see to Her Ladyship. We will talk more tonight."

-00-

"Carson," His Lordship tried to sound nonchalant as he sipped his brandy with Mr. Branson after dinner. "The authorities have released Thomas and will be bringing him home tonight."

"Is he still a suspect, My Lord?"

"They would not say, but I don't think they'd send him back to us if it were unsafe." Lord Grantham said dismissively.

"And do we trust their opinion on the matter?" Carson raised his eyebrows to show that he, in fact, did not.

"I hardly know what to think. Tom, what is your opinion on the matter?"

Tom was only barely following their conversation. He was preoccupied with wondering if Edna's abandoning the his son had anything to do with the recent happenings around Grantham House. It seemed unlikely, but the timing was very suspicious. He only just realized that he had been asked a question. "Huh? Oh, yes, I would say even if he is the culprit, he'd be a fool to try anything with the police watching so closely."

"I do not find that a very comforting thought." Robert admitted. "But, it is best to keep him where we can watch him, I suppose."

"Very good, My Lord." Carson growled, not at all happy with allowing Mr. Barrow back into the house. "But when he is not on duty, I shall lock him in his room. If that is acceptable to you, My Lord?"

"Yes, I think that might be for the best." Robert agreed.

"He might even thank you for it." Tom observed wryly.

-00-

"I completely understand, Mr. Carson. I hope to make you believe I had nothing to do with these deaths, but I know it does not look favorable for me at the moment."

"That is putting it mildly, Mr. Barrow." Carson glowered at Thomas. "I have given you a bell to ring if you need anything. It is for emergencies only. I am sure that I do not have to tell you to use it judiciously."

"Of course, Mr. Carson. Thank you." The odd thing was, he meant it.

Hearing the key turn in the lock of his door was the most beautiful sound Thomas had heard in weeks. At least two people in the world knew that Thomas was innocent. Now, one of them was locked safely in this room and one was locked safely out. He threw himself, fully clothed on the bed and relaxed fully for the first time since Jimmy had gone missing. Within moments, he was fast asleep, the stress and exhaustion finally overwhelming him. He slept the sleep of the beleaguered innocent.

TBC...

* * *

><p><strong>AN So Molesley did survive his little walk with Lucille, but just barely. There are lots of little pieces moving about the chess board just now. But who will survive and who will be caught in the trap? And Elsie is back! Yea?  
><strong>


	12. A Secret Overheard

Elsie rolled her eyes as she left Lady Grantham that evening. Charles was standing outside the room, waiting for her, just where she had left him.

"Charles, there is no need for you to escort me everywhere."

"Until they have made an arrest in this matter, I do."

"And do you intend to follow me around the house all day tomorrow like a body guard?"

"If need be." He said stubbornly. His protective stance had been endearing at first, but it was beginning to grow annoying. "Thomas is back in the house and Miss Baxter is still on the loose." Charles reminded her.

"But Thomas is locked in his room. And you saw him at dinner; the man is more frightened than you are."

"I am not frightened. I am concerned. I've already failed to protect Anna and James. I will not fail to protect my own wife."

Elsie could hardly argue with that sentiment. "About that, Charles, I think we need to tell His Lordship that we are married. We shall have to tell the police if they start asking more questions about where we were when Ivy disappeared. It will not look good if Lord Grantham has been kept in the dark. He still thinks you were at the clinic and that I was visiting my sister."

"You did visit your sister."

"Yes, but just long enough to arrange our wedding. Then you and I were off to Blackpool. If Lady Mary hadn't known where we were and warned us that Lord Grantham was going to recall you from the clinic, we would have been caught."

"But we weren't caught." Charles pointed out. "His Lordship has too much else to worry about right now."

"So his two heads of household marrying won't seem such a big deal." There was the silver lining she had been looking for.

"I do not think he will see it that way."

"However he might see it, he shall need to see it _soon_."

"We agreed we'd tell him before I returned to Downton. I think we should at least wait until the business with Barrow is resolved. There is no reason that our marriage should have any bearing on the detective's investigation."

"Are you sure? Haven't you noticed? All of these disappearances and deaths have helped us."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Thomas is currently too preoccupied to go to the papers. And even if he did, they wouldn't listen to a word he says so long as he is under suspicion."

"You can't be suggesting that is anything more than a coincidence." Charles was aghast.

"I hardly know what I am suggesting. If it is by design, there are only so many people it might be." They both knew who she suspected.

"I will not entertain the notion that any one we trust could have done these things."

"Mr. Bates has been a different man since learning about Anna's attack. Prison changed him, maybe not a lot, but it did change him."

"It did not change him into a man capable of choking James to death and dumping the boy in the river. I will not believe it. And, if you do believe it, as I've said, we should not allow Anna to remain with him." Charles stated emphatically. "I truly believe it is not Mr. Bates."

"You believe it must be Miss Baxter's family?"

"It makes sense. Whoever killed Sir Richard walked into a public building at lunchtime and murdered a very powerful man in his own office. That is the act of a professional killer. The benefits to us are purely coincidental. I am sure of it."

They had reached the point on the stairs where they must part ways, but Charles made as though he was going to follow her up.

"Mr. Carson, I think you are forgetting yourself. You can't think you are coming up to the women's hall."

"I did think I might be able to spend the night protecting my wife." He waggled his eyebrows to make sure she understood his double meaning.

"As much as I would love for you to 'protect' me, I don't think that would be wise."

"I promise I shall be very quiet, Mrs. Carson." Charles took advantage of the dark and empty stairs to kiss his wife while massaging her firm behind.

"Mmm. We both know that is a promise which you cannot keep." Elsie pushed him away, though her eyes looked at him longingly. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Before he could pull her back to him, she escaped lightly up the stairs, blowing him a kiss. Grunting disconsolately to himself, Charles headed to the men's hall and his own, empty room.

Lucille stood in the dark one flight below where the lovers had parted. _Not lovers,_ she corrected herself. _Husband and wife!_ She had heard them pass by her in her darkened office and followed them, catching the tail end of their conversation. Mr. Bates was another possible scapegoat, she noted. Just in case something goes wrong with framing Thomas.

But she could not focus on this new option. She was distracted by the news of their marriage. She knew Charles fancied the sashaying Scot, but had never thought it was more than a physical attraction. Mrs. Hughes might scratch an itch, but Lucille was the salve. If only he could see that, but he had been trapped and he had turned his back on Lucille before she could declare her love.

And after all she had done for Charles! But he didn't know what she had done and if he did, he would not thank her for it. He would probably testify against her as she stood in the dock. She had killed for him, but he would see her hang and feel no remorse.

Lucille forced herself to calm down. A pain in her hand made her look down. Without knowing it, she had gripped her keys so tight that she had drawn blood. _That broken heart will wait_, she told herself. She needed to tie up loose ends with Thomas and focus on finding that Hoxton woman.

TBC...

* * *

><p><strong>AN I hope the chapters will come more quickly, but they will be shorter. I hope that adds to the suspense!**

**I really appreciate the 15 of you who are actually reading this story;) I'm having some fun with it and it's nice to have company.**


	13. Under House Arrest

"Mr. Barrow, you are to be accompanied at all times by either Mr. Bates or Mr. Molesley." Mr. Carson had unlocked Thomas' bedroom door and was towering over Thomas, flanked by Mr. Bates and Mr. Molesley. Mr. Molesley did not look as terrified at this arrangement as Thomas would have expected. In fact, the footman was glaring at Thomas in a most disconcerting way.

It was midmorning before Thomas found himself alone with Molesley. Thomas had begged for the right to smoke and was granted a few minutes in the sunken courtyard out the backdoor. After enduring the wiry man's death stare for half a cigarette, Thomas could stand it no longer. "Is there something you'd like to say, Mr. Molesley?"

"You knew." Molesley accused him in a voice that would have sounded dangerous coming from anyone else.

"I knew what?" Thomas honestly had no idea to what Molesley was referring.

"You knew about Phyllis' past. That's what you were holding over her."

"Oh, that. What of it?" Thomas inhaled slowly.

"Now, she's in danger and you couldn't care less." The lithe man's hands had balled into tight little fists, but Thomas did not notice.

"You're wrong, Mr. Molesley, I am very concerned about Miss Baxter. It's only that I am more concerned about myself." Thomas could hardly say why he felt the impulse to needle Mr. Molesley. Perhaps it was because his own fear was almost crippling him and he desperately needed a distraction. Toying with Molesley seemed like just the thing. "Besides, I am not the one who has any right to worry about Miss Baxter. I think that right belongs to her husband."

"You are a despicable person, Mr. Barrow. I've seen enough bad things happen to good people that I imagine there must be a special fate awaiting the likes of you."

"You keep telling yourself that, if you must," Thomas drawled slowly, "but it won't bring her back."

Before Thomas knew what was happening, Molesley had flown at him in a flurry of flailing arms one could only assume were meant to be punches. Thomas was taken completely by surprise, and Mr. Molesley was able to land a few blows before Thomas threw up his own arms in self defense. Thomas was about to join the fray properly when a deep voice interrupted the escalating melee.

"That will be enough, Mr. Molesley." Mr. Carson spoke calmly from the doorway. "Go inside and straighten yourself up. I shall babysit Mr. Barrow for a while."

"The man is mad." Thomas gasped after Molesley had reentered Grantham House.

"Everyone is on edge. You'd be best served not to provoke them. Whether you are guilty of murder or not, you are not very well liked at the moment. Even for you."

"I am innocent, Mr. Carson."

"I am convinced you did not kill James or Sir Richard, but I would not call you innocent, Mr. Barrow."

"You've a stake in this, Mr. Carson. You want this all to just go away, don't you?"

"I want the killer to be brought to justice as expediently as possible."

"After meeting these cops, I wouldn't hold your breath."

"What have you told them?" Charles tried to sound uninterested in the answer, but they both knew otherwise.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Charles loomed over Thomas menacingly but spoke softly. "Yes. I _would_ like to know, and if you want any kind of life after this is resolved, you will tell me what I want to know."

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Carson? I am sure the authorities would be very interested in that." Thomas' false bravado did not fool Carson.

"What exactly have you told them, Thomas?"

"Everything. I told them everything." Thomas crumbled. "They told me if I left anything out and they found out about it, they'd arrest me."

Carson felt a pang of sympathy for the man. If he was truly innocent of the murders, what must he be experiencing right now?"Thomas. I have not had an opportunity to express my condolences."

"Condolences?" What was Mr. Carson playing at?

"I know you and James had an unusual friendship, but he was your closest friend in the house and I know you must feel the loss very keenly."

"I do, Mr. Carson. Thank you for recognizing that." Even Thomas was astonished that he had managed to be gracious.

"You should know that the police are coming back for another round of interviews today. The detective called His Lordship this morning." Carson informed him. "Now, let's get back to work. I know that keeping busy always helps me take my mind off my troubles."

-00-

"My Lord, might I have a word with you?"

"Can it not wait, Carson? The police will be here again soon and I'd like to have my correspondence finished before they arrive in case they require my presence."

"I fear it is something that must be discussed before the police arrive. There is something I need to tell you."

"Then say what you must, but be brief."

"I did not report to the clinic as you instructed. Lady Mary cancelled my evaluation for me. I returned to Downton to collect Mrs. Hughes. She and I visited her sister in St. Anne's and were married a few days later. We were honeymooning in Blackpool when Lady Mary contacted us and recalled me to London."

Robert struggled to understand. "If this is a joke, Carson, it is in very poor taste. Mrs. Hughes is a respectable woman and using her name in such a ruse is ungentlemanly."

"This is no joke, but Mrs. Carson is indeed a respectable woman." Carson answered. "We wanted you to know because we may both have to account for our whereabouts to the police. Neither of us will lie and we did not want to put you in a position of inadvertently speaking untruth to the police."

"I don't know if your timing is atrocious or genius. We could never stand to lose both of you, but now more than ever; things are so topsy-turvy. Do the staff know?"

"Only Mr. and Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Patmore. Lady Mary knows of our marriage as well."

"Why does that not surprise me? I think we should keep it that way for now."

"Whatever you think best, My Lord."

"Honestly, Carson, if you really valued my opinion, you'd have told me _before_ you married." Robert sounded wounded.

"I apologize for not confiding in you, My Lord, but the truth is, it has all happened rather quickly."

"You have a strange notion of quickly, Carson." Carson and Mrs. Hughes had been dancing around this for decades. If Robert had a penny for every time he had to explain to his daughters that 'No, Carson and Mrs. Hughes are not married.', he wouldn't have to worry about estate taxes.

"As inconvenient as this is, I wish you both well." Robert decided it was late enough in the day for a whiskey. "We shall have to adjust things when we return to Downton, but for now, I cannot spare the time to deal with this. You may tell the police, of course, but no one else."

"Understood. Thank you for your time."

-00-

"Did you sleep well, Mr. Barrow?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you for letting me sleep in my own bed. Though they locked me in, it was more comfortable than a cell."

"I am glad they are being cautious with you, Mr. Barrow, for their sake as well as yours." Detective Vance commented. The constable handed him leather portfolio. "There's been a development since we last spoke."

"Oh?"

"Yes. We've been contacted by police from another jurisdiction; another missing person case. In a search of the person's home, the police found a collection of letters from you, inviting the person for a meeting here in London." Vance held up a small bundle of letters. "Would you care to venture a guess who this person might be?"

Thomas wracked his brain. To whom had he been writing? He had not invited anyone to a meeting. A search of a home? Someone that would be missed? It couldn't be Edna Braithwaite. The only other person who might have occasion to meet with him was, "Mr. Bryant."

"You got it in one! You see, Norris, I told you he would cooperate." The detective looked smugly at his constable, as if he'd just proven a long contested point. "Want to tell us about it? You failed to mention Mr. Bryant in our earlier discussion."

"I haven't communicated with him for months. It honestly slipped my mind."

"Honestly? That's an interesting choice of word. Isn't it, Norris?"

"That it is, guv. Very interesting."

"Especially because I have the letters here, in my hand that say otherwise. You did see these letters in my hand, did you not, Mr. Barrow?"

"I did, but I thought they were from before."

"Why would you write to Mr. Bryant?"

"I was trying to find people willing to corroborate my information about the scandalous way Downton has been run under the present Earl and Mr. Carson. Newspapers were not going to buy my story unless I had more evidence than just my word."

"So you wrote to Mr. Bryant?"

"No. I wrote to Mrs. Bryant, but, apparently, he reads all of her letters before she does, the controlling ape."

"Now, now, let's not speak ill of the very likely dead."

"I only wrote to him a few times. His replies were angry, but he would not put anything in writing that I could use."

"How many letters would you say you wrote to him?"

"Four. Maybe five."

"I've got exactly five letters here, Mr. Barrow. The last of which was posted eight days ago from London. It intimates that you are about to go public with what you know and it is his last chance to cooperate. You say that his cooperation would ensure that his grandson's identity and the identity of said grandson's mother would remain unprinted. You ask him to come to London to meet, face to face."

"What!? I never wrote that. I stopped writing to him four months ago, I swear it."

"Yet another forgery, Mr. Barrow? This is written on the same stationary as the letters you admit to."

"All the staff have access to that stationary."

"Who would have known that you were writing to Mr. Bryant?"

"No one. I keep my letters locked..." A memory dawned.

"You keep them locked…?"

"Ivy. She stole my letters from Jimmy. I didn't notice if any other, older letters were missing."

"Can you look now?"

Thomas looked as though he was going to be sick. "I burned them. After Jimmy's disappearance."

"Along with the telegram?"

"Yes."

"You don't seem to be doing yourself any favors, Mr. Barrow."

"No."

"You would like us to believe that Miss Stuart, who is still missing, stole your letters and forged several other letters? Most of what I have heard of Miss Stuart makes this highly unlikely."

"Highly unlikely." Norris parroted.

"Mr. Bates!" Thomas almost screamed. "The only other person it could have been is Mr. Bates. He learned all sorts of things in jail, or so he is always bragging."

"Things like forgery? And stealing letters?"

"Yes. And murder."

"Yes. You told us about how he came all the way from Yorkshire to push a man into the street in broad daylight. That sounds just like the sort on thing one would learn in prison." The detective's sarcastic tone was not what Thomas wished to hear.

"What about Mrs. Baxter and her family?"

"What connection do they have with Mr. Bryant?"

"What connection did they have with Ivy or Jimmy or Sir Richard?"

"Good point. Right now, the only person with a connection to all three of them is you, Mr. Barrow. Though it is all still circumstantial, the evidence does seem to point solely to you."

"What can I do to prove my innocence?"

"For starters, I need you to write this letter again. Here are the words, written by Constable Norris. Here is the same stationary and…Norris, did you forget a pen for Mr. Barrow?"

"Sorry, guv." Norris looked around in apparent panic. "Here's one. I'm sure His Lordship won't mind."

Thomas looked at the pen oddly. He turned it over and saw the familiar scratch. "This is my pen."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's been missing for weeks, but this is definitely my pen. How did it get onto His Lordship's desk?"

"Are you suggesting that Lord Grantham stole your pen?"

"No, but someone must have found it and assumed it was his."

"It's a very fine pen." Vance noted.

"It was a gift." Thomas explained, not liking how the detective was eying him right now. "I would never spend so much money on something so frivolous."

"Well, I am glad you've been reunited. You really should be more careful with your belongings, Mr. Barrow."

Thomas was not listening to the detective. He was busy copying the letter, hoping to escape from the detective's withering gaze. "There." Thomas handed over the letter. Hopefully, with a longer letter, the forger had slipped up somewhere, though that would not exonerate him. "Is that all, detective?"

"That is all for today, Mr. Barrow. Thank you."

Vance did not even look at the letter Thomas had just written before slipping it into his leather porfolio. It would prove nothing. If your alibi was going to be forgery, you would make sure that you left a few uncharacteristic flourishes in your 'forged' note.

"Aren't we going to arrest him, guv? He identified the pen. Isn't that enough?" Norris was incredulous. "The boys found that pen at the Pelican Stair, right where Mr. Barrow was to meet Mr. Kent."

"I know that, Norris, but it still feels too easy. Mr. Carson assures me they are keeping him under supervision during the day and locked up at night. He isn't going anywhere." Vance gathered his things and gestured to Norris to do likewise. "We'll keep a close eye on him, but give him just enough rope to hang himself. If he did do it and we sweat him a little, we might be able to find Miss Stuart and Mr. Bryant's bodies. It would be nice to give their families some closure. "

"That Mr. Bryant sounds like a piece of work; reading his own wife's mail? It's despicable."

"You astonish me, Norris. We investigate the most heinous crimes this city has to offer and stolen mail is what disgusts you?"

"Maybe I'm just used to the other stuff."

"Ha! Maybe that's it, Norris."

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Sorry for the slow updates, but the mother ship story is taking precedence. Never fear, though, Lucille will not be idle.**


	14. Between Breaths

It was almost evening before the house returned to even keel after the upset of the police interviews.

Charles and Elsie had stolen a moment away from the frayed nerves to talk in his office.

"His Lordship has given his blessing?"

"Not exactly." Charles allowed. "He wasn't best pleased that we told him after the fact, but he is too distracted by other things to bother about us right now."

"That does not sound very positive." Her brow knit in consternation.

"He said he could not stand to lose either of us and we won't discuss any changes until we return to Downton. If we can show in the next few weeks that our marriage does not affect how we perform our duties, it will go a long way towards convincing him we can both stay on and maintain our usual high standards."

"That's about the best we could have hoped for." Elsie observed. "How did your interview with the police go?"

"I can't think why they even bothered. They asked me almost no questions, but just wanted a writing sample. They weren't very well prepared though; they had to borrow a pen from His Lordship's desk."

"That's odd; it was the same with me and still did not have a pen, though my interview was after yours. Wouldn't they have already had the pen by then?"

"You would think so." Charles agreed.

"Did you notice anything funny about the pen?"

"I did notice that it was not His Lordship's preferred brand. I assumed it to be a gift that he keeps as a spare at Grantham House."

"That pen was Mr. Barrow's." Elsie told him. "I recognized it. He's had it for years. He bought it after his first London Season, flashed it about, showing off."

"You are certain it was his?"

"Absolutely certain. I remember it clearly. It was the year after he joined us, let's see, it must have been 1911."

"Why would it be on His Lordship's desk? For that matter, why would the police make such a fuss about it?"

"Maybe it's evidence. Maybe they found it in Sir Richard's office and no one recognized it."

"That would not prove anything. He has already admitted to being there. He was seen by Sir Richard's secretary."

"I don't know, then. It's just awfully strange. You don't think he actually killed James, do you?"

"He is either innocent, or he is the most gifted actor of our age."

"You should be a good judge of that." Elsie heard Her Ladyship's bell ring. She kissed Charles quickly and ran off to dress Lady Grantham for dinner.

-00-

"Is it true, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Is what true, milady?" Elsie hedged.

"About you and Mr. Carson?" Cora raised her eyebrows suggestively.

"Yes, milady. We are sorry that we did not seek your permission beforehand, but…"

"Oh, never mind that. His Lordship was miffed, I think, but I am so glad to know that Carson has finally made an honest woman out of you."

Elsie blushed. "You seem to have the wrong idea, milady. Our relationship has been purely professional until only a few short weeks ago."

"Oh, it has been professional. You both are consummate professionals, but it has not been _purely_ professional." Lady Cora insisted. "I notice each season how much his temper improves when we decide on our return date to Downton. He loathes being away for so long, and it isn't the house that he misses."

Elsie was gratified to hear that he missed her. "We both hope very much this will be the last Season we are parted."

"I'm sure arrangements can be made." Cora admired herself as Elsie styled her hair. "In fact, I have begun to question the wisdom in maintaining two housekeepers."

"To be fair, milady, you do have two _houses_."

"A caretaker could look after Grantham House when we are not here. The planning of Lady Rose's ball went so smoothly with you. Mrs. Butte never seems to grasp exactly what I want."

"Mrs. Butte is very competent, milady, and I understand she needs this job very much. I do not know if I could be comfortable displacing her."

"That is very kind of you, but it does seem the perfect solution. At any rate, we won't think any more of it until next Season. We must focus on getting through all this horrible Barrow business."

"Agreed, milady."

-00-

"You were very quiet at dinner, love." Charles noted, holding his wife in his lap in the butler's office. After the rest of the staff had gone up, she had snuck back down to meet with him.

"Her Ladyship offered us her congratulations."

"I should have anticipated His Lordship would tell her. If she tells Rosamund, our cover shall be blown."

"I think talking to me about it was enough." She lay her head gently on his chest and sighed pensively.

"Did she say something that troubled you?"

"She did. She was talking about bringing me to London next Season."

"Isn't that what we want?" Charles wondered. "I don't plan to come to London without you ever again."

"The problem is, it would mean making Mrs. Butte redundant."

"I hadn't considered that. That does seem terribly unfair to the poor woman." Charles admitted. "We would give her the very best recommendations. I am sure she could find another position."

"This one suits her so well. You said she had a mother and daughter to care for and a son who is a handful."

"Love, many of the families have already consolidated their country staff and their city staff. It is not fair to ask Lady Grantham to maintain two housekeepers if she does not wish it. I am sure they would let her stay on in the offseason as caretaker."

"Her pay would be much reduced. I am not comfortable with the notion of running her out."

"Which is one of the reasons that I love you so much." Charles hugged her closer. "Let us worry about Mrs. Butte another day. At this moment, I don't want to consider anything but my beautiful wife."

Elsie put aside her present concerns and lost herself in Charles' amorous embrace.

Lucille did not want to listen to their giggles and moans, so she removed the glass from the door. It was very late. The rest of the staff had gone to bed. The house stood empty and still, save for the happy couple in the next room. She quickly retreated from the sounds of their licentious activities. On the stairs, Lucille paused to listen to the night. The halls were now blissfully silent. She drank in their dark calm with deep breaths. A voice told her the time had come.

Thomas sat up as he heard the key turn in the lock.

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN Sorry for the cliffhanger (no, I'm not). The next chapter will be along tomorrow.**


	15. Tying Up Loose Ends

The door opened and Mrs. Butte peeked her head into his room.

"What are you doing here?" Thomas demanded.

"Shh. Do you want to wake the whole house?" Mrs. Butte whispered.

"What are you doing here?" He whispered sharply.

"I am trying to do you a favor, but if you aren't interested." She began to close the door.

"Wait. What kind of favor?" He reached out towards her, beckoning her not to leave.

"I discovered something I think you should know about." Mrs. Butte stepped into his room and closed the door behind her.

"What did you discover and exactly how did you discover it?"

She ignored his first question. "For the past few weeks, I've been observing Miss Baxter's odd behavior."

"Odd?"

"You didn't notice her habit of sneaking off after luncheon?"

"I thought she was with Her Ladyship."

"I thought so too, until I saw her in the West attics one day."

"There's nothing in the West attics but the old nursery things and linens that are out of circulation."

"Which is why I was up there."

"What was she doing?"

"She went into one of the rooms at the end of the corridor. After a short time, she came out. I waited until she had left and then went into the room myself."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. I looked around a bit, but I could not see anything to hint at what she had been doing."

"How exactly does this help me?"

"I started watching her more closely and I followed her to the same room several more times. It wasn't until the third time that I noticed something different." Thomas was leaning towards her, hungry for every word. Lucille felt exhilarated. "The curtains in the room were different."

"Different how?"

"A knot had been tied in one of them."

"So? What does that mean?"

"I have no idea, but it had not been there the day before and it was not there the next time I followed her, a few days later. It was the day before Edna abandoned her son on our back step."

"You don't think Edna was communicating with Miss Baxter, do you?"

"I couldn't say. How would they even know each other? I only remember the curtain and the day. That window is visible from the street; I checked."

"Is that all?" Thomas sounded disappointed.

"Since Miss Baxter ran off, I have been back to the room several times, searching for clues. Today, I was searching again, after the police left. During my interview, I had tried to convince them to search the house, top to bottom. I thought they might see something there that I had missed." Lucille continued her story.

"The heat was stifling today, so I opened the window. A raven flew in, which vexed me. I tried to shoo it back out the window, but it was stubborn. It found a little nook near the ceiling that I had never noticed. The raven hid in there. When he came out again, he had something in his beak. I flapped at him and finally succeeded in chasing him back out the window. He dropped what he was carrying."

Lucille handed Thomas a gold watch on a gold watch fob. Thomas turned the watch over, puzzled until he saw the engraving. _'To Horace, from your loving wife, Daphne.'_

"Oh, my God," Thomas whispered. He grabbed her shoulder. "Did you tell anyone? What else is in that nook?"

"No, I didn't tell anyone, and I am too short to reach into the nook. I suspect there might be evidence about the missing people. So far, all the evidence has pointed to you. I was afraid something up there might implicate you further, but I know these things were put there by Miss Baxter."

"You have to take me there! Show me where this nook is!"

"Calm down, Mr. Barrow. I won't be seen wandering the house with you in your nightclothes. Dress yourself and meet me in the West attic when you are ready."

-00-

Thomas was dressed and upstairs in less time than it took to cook a three minute egg, Lucille thought oddly. He carried an electric torch he had recently purchased for himself. He prided himself on being at the forefront of technology. Lucille wondered what he had against a simple candle.

His shirt was buttoned incorrectly and he had not bothered with a tie. _All the better._

"Which room is it?" He asked breathlessly, his eyes darting between the two or three doors that it could be. Lucille pointed to the middle door at the very end of the corridor. Thomas rushed heedlessly into the room.

He flashed the light around the ceiling looking for the nook she had described. There were too many options. "Where is it?"

Lucille strolled slowly into the room and considered carefully. "It looks so different in the dark." She commented in a tone that was maddening to Thomas.

"Where is it!?" Thomas almost yelled at her.

"Give me your torch."

"Here." He thrust it at her roughly. Mrs. Butte pointed the beam of light amongst the beams of wood.

"There." The spotlight rested on a dark hole less than a foot from the low ceiling. "I pulled that over, trying to reach in." She pointed to a low stool directly underneath the hole.

Thomas dashed to the stool and jumped up. Even with his height, he was barely able to reach the nook. "You hold the light steady. No, not in my face!"

Thomas' outstretched fingers felt paper. He managed to extract the folded slip of paper. Quickly opening it, he read Jimmy's last note, as it had been dictated to him by Lucille. _'Nothing ever happened between Ivy and me. Please don't hurt her. It was always you. Jimmy'_

"What the hell is this?" Thomas sputtered. He recognized the handwriting without the signature. How had Phyllis accomplished this? She wasn't capable of this level of deceit, Thomas was certain. She must be working with her family, but why?

Thomas shoved the letter quickly in his pocket. This would need to be destroyed immediately. The police would misconstrue Jimmy's meaning. But what _had_ he meant? With a great deal of effort, Thomas was able to extract something else from the niche. He held it before him, inquisitively turning it in his hands. Mrs. Butte shone the torch on the item, feigning curiosity. "What is it?"

"It's…an inkwell." Still standing on the stool, he turned it in the light, there was something odd about the ink inside. It was not dark India ink, it was dark, but it was thick and…it was red. With a pit growing in his stomach, Thomas flipped the lid of inkwell open. "Good God!"

One of Sir Richard's piercingly blue eyes stared up them both, held in congealed blood.

Thomas was staring, aghast. Lucille gasped in a show of shock. The light glared straight into Thomas's face, blinding him before it flickered out.

"Dammit! They told me those batteries would last at least thirty minutes!" Thomas cursed.

"I still have my candle, just give me a moment." She assured him.

Thomas tried to follow her figure in the dark, but all he could see was the blue remnant of the torch's direct light burned temporarily onto his retinas. He was afraid to step down from the stool with his vision so impaired, so Thomas waited impatiently where she had left him.

"Just a moment." He heard her say from somewhere behind him. The sound of his exasperated sigh almost covered the soft sound of the rope as it slipped over his head.

"What the..?" The tightening rope stopped any other sound from escaping his lips. He dropped the grotesque inkwell and clawed at the hemp at his neck as it lifted him onto the tips of his toes on the precariously unstable stool. Panic gripped him, rational thought deserted him. His hands reached up over his head, seeking to relieve the pressure on his throat by grabbing the rope above the knot he could feel at the back of his neck. The noose had ceased to tighten, but it was not loosening and he could raise himself no further without fear of falling off the stool altogether. He could not reach the beam over which the noose hung.

Time dilated. His senses were heightened by the rush of adrenaline his desperate body was releasing. He could see better now, he saw her walk back in front of him. Through the oppressive sound of his blood rushing in his ears, he heard her soft, almost gentle voice.

"Why, Thomas? Why did you make me do this? If you'd only been content to be under butler." She walked closer to him. His vision was beginning to blur now, his moment of clarity was gone. "But you convinced yourself that the world owed you more than it had already given you."

She made a clicking noise with her tongue. Tsk tsk. "Such an ambitious boy. You chose the wrong allies, Thomas. You made enemies where you should have made friends. You were surrounded by people who would have loved you if you gave them a chance."

He nodded, trying to show contrition, hoping she would relent, but he knew she would not. In that moment, he knew everything. It had all been her, the letters, the murders, everything. With his waning strength and consciousness, he pointed at her accusingly.

"Yes. It was me. Ivy, Jimmy, Sir Richard, Edna, Mr. Bryant and you. The police shall find you here tomorrow or perhaps later, having tragically taken your own life while visiting the trophies of your black deeds one last time."

His arms were spread wide, imploringly.

"I am afraid your fate is sealed, Thomas. I need a patsy and it was all too easy to set you up. It wouldn't have been this easy if it wasn't preordained. Accept your fate, Thomas, as we all must. I truly hope the next life treats you better than this one has, but perhaps you should try not being such a prick."

His flailing arms were moving more sluggishly now. She relit the torch and shone it in his face. Lucille observed his blue lips and his rolling eyes. It was time to be merciful.

The light was blinding him, so he never saw her approach. She kicked the stool out from under him. The yellow light of the torch changed, became whiter, purer. His last thought was, _Next time, I won't be such a prick. I promise. _

Lucille waited in the dark for ten minutes before she dared to approach the body. While she waited, she returned the narrow ladder to its place behind the chests of linens. It was the ladder left over from the bunk beds Mary and Edith had once shared during a disastrous trip to London when they were small girls. It had been a gamble for Lucille to leave it out, but she had hidden it behind a support post and Thomas had been in too much of a hurry to see it. It had been remarkably simple to slip the noose over his head and tighten it before he could respond. She took it as yet another indication that her actions were supported by a higher power.

Lucille walked back around to face Thomas' corpse. She observed him in the light of the torch. She searched his wrist for a pulse. Satisfied that he was indeed dead, she slipped the key to his bedroom that she had stolen from Mr. Carson's office into his pocket. She felt a peace in the closure of this chapter of her story. Charles' job was safe, even if he would not know to whom he owed his thanks, but she could not dwell on her victory. Not so long as Phyllis Hoxton-Fletcher walked the earth.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN No redemption for Thomas this time around. I gotta admit, it was kind of satisfying killing Thomas off. Mr. Fellowes should give it a try. **

**FYI, if this were a tv season, this would have been the penultimate episode. The next few chapters will be the season ender! How it ends depends on whether or not we've been renewed for a second season...Let me know if you want this to continue.**

**ETA/ I had to change the name on the watch because I mistook one character's name. FYI, Horace and Daphne are Mr. and Mrs. Bryant. I thought his name was Charles, but that was his son's name.**


	16. The Morning After

"Mr. Barrow?" Charles called out from the door. Molesley and Bates stood beside him as the butler started to unlock the door, but realized it was unnecessary. He threw open the door and cursed at the empty room. Clearly, the bed had not been slept in.

"Blast! How did he get out?"

Mr. Molesley rushed into the room, throwing open the wardrobe and ridiculously looking under the bed.

"He is gone, Mr. Molesley." Mr. Bates said gently.

"We must call the police immediately." Mr. Carson proclaimed. "Damn and blast. This will not reflect well on the household. What will His Lordship say?"

The police arrived within the half hour, but they accomplished little more than the staff had; standing around, looking bewildered. "Do they expect him to come walking back in?" Beryl whispered to Elsie, before heading into the hall to serve yet another round of tea to the apparently unfazed and unhurried Constables.

"I don't suppose we could have another slice of that lovely lemon cake, could we, Mrs. Patmore?"

"Why not, Mr. Norris? It isn't as though I've anything else to be doing." She added under her breath, again for Elsie's amusement.

"I'll bring them the cake. You need to start on lunch."

"Thank you ever so, dearie." Beryl was relieved to turn the policemen over to Mrs. Hughes. _Mrs._ _Carson_, Beryl reminded herself, but she couldn't start calling Elsie that until the announcement was official.

-00-

Charles and Mrs. Butte came down shortly, after speaking to Lord Grantham and Detective Vance. Charles looked to be in a decidedly foul mood.

"My spare key to the bedrooms is missing." He confided in Elsie when she came into his office with a cup of tea for him. "How could I be so careless? To just let him escape like that?"

"Mr. Bates said that Thomas didn't take any of his things with him. Doesn't that strike you as strange?"

"What about this situation _isn't_ strange?" Charles slurped his tea noisily as he was wont to do when he was upset. It always reminded Elsie of a pouting child, trying to make as much noise as possible. Even under the current, stressful conditions, she found it endearing.

"Is that it then? Are they convinced it was all Thomas?" Elsie still couldn't believe it.

"No. They think he might have been afraid for his life and decided it was safest to run." Charles told her. "I tend to agree. Killing two people, possibly more, in cold blood is not something I find easy to attribute to Thomas, no matter how vile he might be."

"So we are all still stuck here in London?"

"For the foreseeable future."

-00-

That evening, the police were conducting yet another search of Thomas' room and all the public rooms. Lucille could not believe their narrow scope and their incompetence. However, she resisted the urge to push them in the right direction. It would not do to call attention to herself now, when it was almost over. If they waited too long, Thomas would lead them right to him soon enough. She tried to act as though nothing were different. She still met Mr. Nash when he came with the post, though now she realized he had been lingering longer and longer each day. That might get awkward, but she could not afford to change any of her habits, as they might be remarked upon.

The worst thing was that Mr. Carson had noticed and was trying to gently encourage her to cultivate her 'friendship' with Mr. Nash. "Steady chap, that Nash," he'd said on more than one occasion upon receiving the mail from her. It irked her to think that it would make him happy to see her married off to the postman. She knew it was because it would make him feel less guilty about installing his wife, the miserly Scottish Gargoyle, as mistress of Grantham House as well as of Downton.

What really concerned Lucille was the whereabouts of Miss 'Baxter', as everyone still insisted upon calling her. In this endeavor, she found that Mr. Molesley was finally proving useful. Every since Phyllis' disappearance, any spare hours of the day found Mr. Molesley walking the streets of London, one section at a time. He would catch a train to an underground station and walk up and down the streets until he reached the next station. The next day, he would return to that station and work his way to the next.

He had a map of London in his room where he marked off each station and street as he eliminated them. It was a flawed approach, to be sure, but since it was the only concerted effort being made to locate the missing woman, Lucille followed his progress closely. Whenever she could do so without arousing suspicion, she encouraged him and supported him. Within two days of his searching, she had become Mr. Molesley's confidant; the person to whom he reported his progress. She had begun to convince him not to trust the police implicitly. If that fool actually happened to find her, Lucille was certain to be the first to know.

-00-

The day after Thomas' 'disappearance', found Mr. Carson cursing the former under butler.

"He scheduled you for today and neglected to tell me? If they do ever find him, I swear…" Elsie's little cough behind him brought Charles back to himself. "Yes, since you've all the materials, Mr. Toby, do come in, but mind you give us ample warning before you turn off the boiler. If you leave Mrs. Patmore in the lurch, I don't think she'll be very forthcoming with the cake at tea time."

Charles groused his way into his office. Why would Thomas schedule the boiler to be changed while the family was still in attendance? _Fool._

"Is there any way I can help, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Butte met him at his door. Charles gave a jump. Sometimes she moved so silently that he could not have said where she came from.

"Ah, Mrs. Butte, it seems the boiler is to be replaced over the next few days. We shall need to coordinate the hot water for baths and cooking. Mr. Toby tells me there may be several disruptions over the course of the process, though he will try to minimize them."

"And how shall we contain the dust? The downstairs shall be lousy with coal and iron dust in no time."

"I am not sure how that can be helped." Carson really had no solution and had not been able to give the matter much thought.

"We could hang some sort of dust curtain up between the boiler room and the rest of the downstairs."

"That is an excellent idea, Mrs. Butte. Have Madge bring some of the old linens down, but make sure they are the damaged linens, not just the out of circulation ones."

"Of course, Mr. Carson." Lucille bit her tongue to keep from smiling.

And so it was that poor, overworked, underappreciated Madge had the misfortune of discovering Mr. Barrow.

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN I am still in negotiations with ITV (aka my family) to see if we've been renewed for a second season, but things look promising.**


	17. Discovered

Madge's scream was heard throughout the house. Mrs. Hughes was the first to reach her, having been in Her Ladyship's room laying out the evening's clothes. "Whatever is the matter, child?"

Unable to translate Madge's pants and tears, Elsie had opened the door to the room to which the hysterical girl was pointing. She gasped and shut the door immediately. Anna and Mr. Bates had reached her now.

"We must call the police. No one is to enter that room. Mr. Bates, will you please guard the stairs here?"

He nodded taciturnly.

"Anna, let's get Madge downstairs. I'd say she might be due a bit of fortified wine." They led the maid downstairs. Her shock was wearing off and she was beginning to cry even harder now. In the kitchen, they sat her on a chair. Mrs. Hughes put a cool, wet cloth on the back of her neck as she sobbed and hiccupped.

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Butte came hurrying into the kitchen. Elsie shook her head at Charles' concerned look. He looked as though he was going to take her in his comforting arms. As much as she wished for it, Elsie could not let him give them away. "Mr. Carson, you must call the police at once."

He scrutinized her for a few seconds before heading off to follow her instructions. Mrs. Butte remained in the kitchen, but said nothing. The other women seemed to have things well in hand.

Mrs. Patmore brought out her best port and poured a small glass for Madge. She gestured to Mrs. Hughes, who declined. Mrs. Hughes was shaken, but she did not need the wine to calm her. She wanted Charles, but she knew they could not comfort one another without betraying their secret. Her own strength would need to be enough. She did not doubt that it would be.

"What's upset her?" Anna asked kindly. "Why have the police been called? Is it something to do with Miss Baxter or Thomas?"

Elsie nodded for the others to see, but said for Madge's sake, "It doesn't matter right now. Madge, dear, you'll need to talk to the police when they arrive, but, for now, just sip your wine and calm your nerves."

-00-

"It appears that Mr. Barrow _was _the killer all along." Detective Vance reported to Lord and Lady Grantham. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Butte stood beside their employers, it had been deemed best to have everyone informed at the same time. The detective was under instructions not to be too explicit in his descriptions in deference to the ladies' delicate sensibilities.

"We found a good deal of evidence in the attic where we found the…where we found Mr. Barrow. In addition to certain 'souvenirs' from Sir Richard Carlisle, we found letters from Mr. Bryant, Mr. Kent and a Miss Edna Braithwaite."

"Oh, dear. Miss Braithwaite?" Lady Grantham gasped.

"There is also a piece of evidence that we believe belongs to Miss Stuart, but we don't have any means of confirming that. Based upon the letter that was found on Mr. Barrow's person, we have good reason to assume that she was his first victim."

"What was the evidence? Perhaps Mrs. Patmore or Daisy could confirm if it belonged to Ivy or not."

"That is unlikely." _After all, one woman's finger looks like any other,_ he thought.

"Mr. Barrow was also in possession of a watch that had previously been described to us by Mrs. Bryant. It was a present to him from her on their last anniversary. Even though we've not found a body, I fear we must assume that Mr. Bryant is another victim." He informed them.

"We believe Mr. Barrow killed the kitchen maid and the footman out of jealousy. When he needed money to run, he went to Sir Richard, who turned him down and was killed for his trouble. Next, he tried to work with Miss Braithwaite to blackmail the family. Then, he tried to blackmail Mr. Bryant."

"How exactly was he going to use Miss Braithwaite's death to blackmail the family?" Lady Grantham asked. It didn't make any sense to her.

"He knew the baby's true parentage, he confessed as much to us. He probably had agreed to share the money with Miss Braithwaite, but either he got greedy, or she threatened to cut him out of the deal."

"But no demands were ever made. If he was so desperate for money, why not make the demand as soon as the child arrived?" Cora wanted to know.

Unable to provide a satisfactory answer, Detective Vance deflected, "It's early days yet, we'll have to work out the exact timing of everything and try to piece together the most likely scenario. There are a lot of loose ends that we are trying to tie up. To be honest, my first instinct on this case was that Mr. Barrow was being set up, but I think that is now out of the question. We have more than sufficient evidence to tie Mr. Barrow to every known and suspected victim and his suicide can be taken as a confession."

"So you are certain it _was_ suicide?" Mr. Carson asked. "I'm sorry to interrupt your report, but Mr. Barrow is not the sort of man to commit suicide." Mrs. Butte forced her breathing to remain calm and even.

"An expert on the subject are you?" Constable Norris asked, sarcastically.

"No, but I knew Mr. Barrow better than you. You say he was afraid of being caught, so why would he have saved all this evidence? Detective, you said it yourself, you thought he was being set up. Might he not also have been killed?"

"The criminal mind is a dark and mysterious thing, Mr. Carson." The detective lectured sagely. "Maybe on some level he wanted to be caught. Maybe his guilt over killing Mr. Kent was too much for him. Maybe he knew we were closing in on him. We had just found evidence that put him at the likely scene of Mr. Kent's death. Whatever the reason, I assure you, this was a suicide."

"What about Miss Baxter and her family connections?" Lady Grantham asked.

"Sometimes investigations smoke out rats besides the ones we are hunting." Vance told her.

"But her family isn't to blame, so she would be safe to return, if we could find her."

"That's a big 'if', milady. She's well hid now. You aren't likely to see her again."

-00-

When Mr. Molesley returned from his daily search, he found most of the staff sitting around the long table in shock.

"What's happened?" His heart dropped, thinking there was some news of Phyllis.

"They found Mr. Barrow." Mrs. Patmore said lowly.

"Where was he?"

"In the attic."

"Why would he hide in the attic?"

"Not hiding; hanging."

Molesley gulped sympathetically. "I guess we know why he left his things in his room."

"He certainly wasn't going to need them, where he was going." Mrs. Patmore agreed.

"They think Mr. Barrow was responsible for everything?"

"They do."

"That's wonderful!" The crying maids at the far end of the table looked up and glared at his inappropriate enthusiasm. "I'm sorry, but this means Phyllis, that is, Miss Baxter is safe. It would be safe for her to return."

"Yes, but it also means you have less time to look for her."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll be returning to Downton very soon, now that we're free to leave London," the cook informed him.

_Typical,_ Joseph thought. As with everything else in his life, every golden guinea had a heart of lead.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Sorry for the long delay between chapters. The "mother ship" story has a lot of momentum right now, so this one has suffered from negligence. On the upside, we've been renewed for a second season, so we're in for a nice, cliffhanger of a season finale in a few chapters…**


	18. Life After Death

"We'll be home soon, love," he promises as he holds her. Finally, the long day had passed and she had found him waiting in his office for her, as she knew she would. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Elsie shakes her head. "Not yet. Soon, but not yet." She can't tell him that she is afraid to close her eyes for fear of seeing Thomas' tortured visage. Of all the sins identified and enumerated by the church, suicide had seemed the most terrible to her as a child. It was a sin not only against God, but against yourself and against hope. It was a rejection of every gift that life might hold. Or so she had been taught. The idea of any soul being so tormented and despondent that they would resort to such a desperate act left her feeling cold. She would tell him all these things someday. For now, it is enough to be held in his warm embrace and to know she is loved.

-00-

The end of Season party was abandoned quietly and the staff began preparations to close Grantham House for another year. Mr. Carson had even more work than usual because of Mr. Barrow's neglect of the books. Several days before they were to leave, he called Mrs. Butte into his office. He'd asked Mrs. Patmore to bring him tea for two, as he was not looking forward to this conversation.

"Please have a seat, Mrs. Butte." Carson indicated the large leather chair. "After this nasty business, it is difficult to return to the mundane matter of running a house, but there it is."

He prepared a cup of tea for her, mistakenly adding sugar, but he did not notice his mistake. "I wanted to speak to you privately regarding a couple of matters. Firstly, I must be honest with you and tell you that Lady Grantham is considering consolidating the housekeeping duties between Downton Abbey and Grantham House. This would not result in a dismissal for you, but in reduced duties and pay. I know it is easier to find work in the offseason and I wanted to let you know in case you wanted to pursue other employment. You may depend upon a stellar recommendation from myself and Lady Grantham."

Lucille was astonished with what Mr. Carson was telling her. She had known of this development, of course, but she had not expected that he would be so upfront with her. He wore a soft and compassionate expression, very like the one he had worn when she had fallen in love with him. Mr. Carson had his faults, to be sure, but he was truly a kind man; kinder than any she had ever known. It was really tragic that he was so taken in by Mrs. Hughesallhighandmighty.

"Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Carson. I will consider my options very carefully." _But I could never leave you._

"Speaking of options, I was thinking perhaps, now that Nellie is older, you might wish to find her work. With poor Ivy's absence, we need a kitchen maid at Downton. I am sure your daughter would do very well in the position, if you could stand to lose her to the country."

"She does so much at home, but I could look after mother in the offseason. And if my Grantham House duties are to be reduced, we would certainly need the money."

"We could work with Mrs. Patmore to see if Nellie could come home during the Season, if it helped you to have her. I know you've your mother to look after. It isn't a usual arrangement, but I would like to help you in any way that I can. You've served this family well."

"I shall have to discuss it with Nellie, Mr. Carson, and see if I think I can handle mother without the additional help. Thank you for your kind consideration. When do you need to know for certain?"

"If you could let me know as soon as possible, it would be appreciated. Can you decide by the end of the week?"

"I think we can. Was that all?"

"Yes, that was all. Thank you, Mrs. Butte."

-00-

"Mrs. Butte, there's someone at the backdoor for you." Anna informed her as she emerged from the butler's office.

"Thank you, Anna." She had not noticed the knowing smirk on Anna's face.

"Mr. Nash! What are you doing here on a Sunday?" Lucille was honestly astounded.

"I hope that I'm not being presumptuous, Mrs. Butte, but I wanted to speak to you. Could we step across into the park? They unlock it on Sundays."

"Even if it were locked, I have the key." She reminded him. "One moment, let me tell someone that I am stepping out." _Or is it 'walking out'?_

When she returned, she brought a light shawl with her, not because she was cold, but because propriety said she should bring one.

They crossed the street and entered in the nearest gate. Mr. Nash seemed nervous and Mrs. Butte suspected she was in for a difficult conversation. They walked beneath the overhanging trees. The shade was cool, but the humidity was trapped by the trees.

"They'll be closing up the house soon, won't they?"

"Yes, Mr. Nash, I believe so."

"I'm very sorry to hear it. I shall miss my morning coffee." He said sheepishly.

"I am sure you can find coffee elsewhere. We do not hold a monopoly on the commodity." She jested lightly. _Best to let him down easy, _she thought.

"It's not so much the coffee as the company, if I may say so, Mrs. Butte."

"It is kind of you to say so, Mr. Nash, but surely company is even more plentiful than coffee for a young man such as yourself."

"You might think so, but you would be mistaken." He said, nervously wiping his brow. "I was wondering if I might call on you at your home, Mrs. Butte, after you've returned there. That is, I would like to continue seeing you."

Lucille might be a murderess, but she was not completely without a heart. She'd never meant to lead the poor man on, but she did know what it was like to have one's heart broken. She didn't think a rejection from her would break the young man's heart, but there was no reason to be unnecessarily cruel.

"Mr. Nash, I am deeply flattered, but, if you are asking what I think you are asking, I think a young man like you would be better matched with a younger woman than myself. I am surely fifteen years your senior."

"That doesn't matter to me. Young girls are so flighty and immature. You are steady and intelligent and you've been so very sweet to me of late." He looked hurt and confused. "I thought you would welcome my attentions."

"All women enjoy the attentions of a sweet young man, but that does not mean that they would want to walk out with him. I am sorry if you feel that I misled you. I did enjoy our coffee in the mornings, but it was not a flirtation, only a friendship."

"Could we not meet occasionally then, as friends?" He was so earnest that she felt powerless to deny him.

"I suppose we could meet. Occasionally. As friends." She allowed tentatively, but immediately regretted it when she saw the look of hope on his face.

"I would like that, Mrs. Butte." He said sincerely.

"I must be getting back, Mr. Nash."

"Of course, I've taken enough of your time." He offered her his arm. "Let me escort you back."

Lucille was a mess of feelings as she walked back to Grantham House on Mr. Nash's arm. She felt the great honor of being valued by such a good man, but he was the wrong man. Wasn't he?

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Butte."

"Tomorrow then, Mr. Nash."

TBC...

* * *

><p><strong>AN What do we think of Mr. Nash? Could he redeem her or should he just run?**


	19. A Chance Encounter

The next morning's post was exchanged for a warm cup of strong coffee, as it had been for the past few weeks, but the recipient of the coffee was very subdued. Mr. Nash felt that he had embarrassed himself and Mrs. Butte, but he wasn't sure how to apologize to her without making it worse. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong about their difference in age. He did have a youthful face, but he was almost forty. Barring that, he wanted to at least tell her that having her as a friend would be enough for him, but he hadn't yet sold himself on the lie.

After some small talk, he handed her back the empty mug and returned to his route. "I'll see you this evening, Mrs. Butte."

"Until then, Mr. Nash." And to her own great shock and surprise, she gave him a warm and genuine smile at the thought.

-00-

"What do you think? Does it interest you?"

"Of course, it does, but how can I leave you alone with Clive and Gran?" Nellie asked.

"You mustn't worry about that. Working in the country will be a nice change for you. You've never gotten to spend much time outside of London. The Crawley family are faithful employers."

"I've always been so fond of Mr. Carson. He used to give me candies when I visited you at Grantham House and you always speak so highly of him."

"Yes. Mr. Carson will look after you and I will look after Gran and Clive. I might even be able to come visit you on occasion. It would be treat for us both." Lucille held her daughter's hand. Ah, to be young and to have options. She was proud that she could provide her daughter with such a fine opportunity. From what Lucille had heard, Daisy was likely to leave Downton in a few years, and, though Mrs. Patmore might work until they pried the spoon from her cold hand, she wasn't immortal. With Mr. Barrow and his 'crimes' wrapped up neatly and Nellie sent off to the country, Lucille could focus on finding Miss Baxter and punishing her family. "I'll tell Mr. Carson as soon as I get back to Grantham House. He will be so pleased."

-00-

As Mrs. Butte had predicted, Mr. Carson had been pleased to hear that Nellie would be joining the party as they returned to Downton. "I am certain she and Mrs. Patmore will get along splendidly," he assured her. He always took it very seriously when a parent entrusted their child to his care. The fact that he actually knew Mrs. Butte made it even more important to him to allay any fears or trepidations she might have. "We'll take good care of her, Mrs. Butte. I promise."

Remembering his tender words, Lucille wore a pensive smile as she waited for Mr. Nash and the evening post. In a few days, her dear daughter would be employed and off to an idyllic country setting. Granted, she'd be lucky to see aught but the inside of a stove for a few years, but any chance to escape London was not an opportunity to be squandered. Lucille was happy for her daughter, though it made her a little sad for her own sake, to lose the company and support Nellie provided. Perhaps Lucille could use her presence at Downton as a reason to occasionally escape the city, her mother and Clive's sporadic visits. It also gave her another connection to Mr. Carson. He would look after her daughter almost as if she were his own daughter. It thrilled her secretly to share her child with him. It was something the Scottish strumpet could never do.

"A penny for 'em." Mr. Nash offered kindly as he finally descended the stairs. He'd watched her for a few stolen moments from the street level. She looked tragically beautiful to him as she waited in the shaded, sunken courtyard with a sad smile on her face. He wondered if anyone else knew how much weight she carried on her shoulders. He wanted to help her carry that weight even if he did not know what caused it.

"You'd ask for change back if I told you." She returned jokingly, again astonishing herself.

"I doubt that. Were you thinking about Miss Baxter, by any chance?"

"No." She was perplexed by his question. "Why do you ask?"

"I thought I saw her at tea today, when I stopped off at a public house at the St. Katherine Dock. I usually go home to have tea with my mum, but today I met an old friend who works on a barge." Nash explained. "I've never met Miss Baxter and have only seen her a few times, so I'm not sure it was her, but I'm fairly certain."

Lucille tried to remain calm, but felt her heart trying to beat out of her chest.

"Are the police still looking for her?" Mr. Nash asked.

"I honestly don't know. They don't suspect her of anything anymore, but they might still want to find her. It's not as urgent as it once was." Her mind was spinning in a flurry of thoughts and potential plans.

"I'll drop by and talk to the constable tomorrow. It might not even be her."

"Probably not, but I'm sure the police would appreciate knowing that you saw her at the… I'm sorry, what was the name of the pub?"

"The Lock and Keel."

_Bingo_. Lucille could not help but smile, which warmed Mr. Nash's heart oddly. She had heard of the pub. It was a place generally known as a meeting place for people who needed to book cheap passage out of England with no questions asked. There were also rooms that were let above the pub where these desperate people often stayed. Miss Baxter was trying to flee the country. It was a lucky thing Mr. Nash had seen her. It would be even luckier for Mrs. Butte if it happened that Miss Baxter were staying above the pub.

"Mr. Carson will be waiting for these." Mrs. Butte waved the inconsequential mail vaguely. "Until tomorrow, Mr. Nash."

"Until then, Mrs. Butte, have a good evening."

Mrs. Butte did deliver the post faithfully, but she took the opportunity to request the evening off. "I'd like to spend some time with Nellie before I send her north."

"Of course, Mrs. Butte. Just be back by ten tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson."

Before leaving Grantham House, Lucille went to her room and dug into the back of her lowest drawer. Finding the small, amber bottle, she weighed it in her hand, hoping it would be enough. Lucille knew she was rushing into this without proper planning, but she had to make sure Mrs. Baxter did not get away. Finally, this was Lucille's opportunity to take something from the men who had taken her father from her.

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN Next chapter is the 'Season One' finale! Mrs. Butte vs. Miss Baxter!**


	20. Found

**AN/ Yes, I am back to finish off the Crack that I started. I apologize for abandoning this fic a few months ago, but the 'mother ship' was demanding too much of my time. Now, we'll go Crackfic crazy and undo all the happy endings I handed out in the main story. I hope to update 3 times a week until this one is done, but summer is here, so postings will suffer.**

* * *

><p>Lucille stood in the shadows, watching dusk cover the waterfront, as patient as the night itself. She watched dark and cloaked figures moving in and out of the Lock and Keel. After several hours of her vigil, the crowd was mostly sailors and their girls. If Miss Baxter were inside, she was not likely to come out. In the rooms over the pub lights went on and off, but one room remained conspicuously brightly lit as though the occupant feared the night and had no plans to venture out nor welcome the darkness in.<p>

The rooms were reached by a series of rickety stairs attached to the outside of the building. They were reminiscent of the pictures of fire escapes Lucille had seen on some of the new American high rises. Lucille decided that she would take the risk and knock on the door of the room with the steady light. She felt certain that, if Miss Baxter were here, she was in that room. It was worth the small risk. It was better to expose herself to one person in a roll of the dice than to needlessly call attention to herself by asking questions in the tavern. She was sure to be remembered in any event, but one witness was not as dangerous to her as several dozen.

She felt the cold bottle in her pocket. It was concentrated Tincture of Opium, something she'd confiscated from Clive in the early days of his addiction when she'd still had hope that she could help him. Back then, he had a prescription and could afford the good stuff. A few drops of this solution were the equivalent of several tablespoons of your typical Laudanum. Still, she was doubtful that she had enough to actually kill Miss Baxter. Lucille would have to be crafty to convince Miss Baxter to drink the opium in the first place, and then she would have to be sharp to take advantage of Miss Baxter's altered state of mind.

The thought of toying with the drugged woman appealed to Lucille's warped sense of justice. They had tortured and toyed with her father, she would do the same to Miss Baxter.

The ramshackle steps creaked beneath her as she climbed to the second floor. Lucille tempered her knock to what she hoped was a reassuringly confident, but not aggressively insistent rapping. The person in the room shifted things about and the light went out.

Lucille could not help but roll her eyes. If you don't want any visitors, you don't make panicked, rustling sounds when someone knocks on the door and you certainly don't turn off the light to signal that you are home. Maybe this was going to be as easy as Ivy had been. Part of Lucille was disappointed at the prospect; she had wanted to enjoy this particular game.

"Miss Baxter?" Lucille whispered to the door. "Please open up. It's Mrs. Butte. I've a message from Joseph."

Another round of rustling ensued behind the door. Lucille heard what she thought was a chair being removed from in front of the door; no doubt wedged under the door handle. Lucille noted with bitter irony that the door opened out of the room, not in.

A white and terrified face peeked out from the small crack of the door. "Joseph sent you?"

"He can't get away from the house right now, but he's coming later. He wants to go away with you; to America or wherever you will feel safe."

"He said that?" The door opened further. Lucille forced herself to be still. She did not want to spook the skittish woman.

"He did. He wants me to wait with you until he arrives. I don't think I was followed, but I should not be standing out here on the landing. Someone might see."

"Of course, come in." Phyllis beckoned her in quickly.

_Too easy by half._ Lucille thought.

The room looked unoccupied. Miss Baxter was obviously not interested in making herself comfortable. This was just a hideout until she could find passage on a ship. Lucille did, however, make note of the pistol sitting on the table beside the chair that was facing the door. This was obviously where Miss Baxter had spent most of her time. She looked as though she had not slept in days.

"How are you doing, Miss Baxter?" Lucille asked with insincere concern. "We've all been so worried about you."

"I'm as you see." The frazzled woman answered. "When do you expect Joseph?"

"It is hard to say. He must finish his work at Grantham House and then he was going to pack."

"I've found a ship that will take me, no paperwork, no questions asked, for ten pounds. I don't have enough for two people."

"Mr. Carson and Mr. Bates have lent Mr. Molesley some money."

This seemed to frighten the woman more than reassure her. "Do _they_ know where I am? How did you find me?"

"Only Mr. Molesley and I know where you are. I only know because Mr. Nash told me; he saw you. I convinced him not to tell the police until tomorrow. Then I told Mr. Molesley. You have to move tonight."

"You are certain he won't tell them tonight? Once the police know, my family will know. They have informants in the police force." Phyllis looked around nervously and her eyes fell on the gun.

"Do you know how to use that?" Lucille asked, not needing to clarify further.

"It's been a while, but, yes, I know how to use it." Phyllis nodded. "Careful, it is loaded."

"I'll be careful." Lucille promised. "Mr. Molesley may be a while. You should get some rest. I can watch the door."

"I don't think I can sleep."

"Then at least take something to calm you. Is there any wine?"

"I bought a bottle when I first arrived." Miss Baxter waved a hand towards a dresser where a bottle and corkscrew sat beside an empty glass. "I thought I might need something to steady my nerves, but I haven't even opened it."

"You needed to keep your wits about you, but now, I'm here and I'll look out for you. You need to get yourself together before Mr. Molesley arrives." Lucille headed for the bottle and opened it swiftly. "Even if you can't sleep, you can relax a little."

"Maybe I should. One glass couldn't hurt."

Lucille was glad her back was turned to Miss Baxter because she could not suppress the smirk that came to her face as she thought, _One glass should certainly be enough to hurt _and emptied the opiate into the glass of wine.

"Here, just a small glass." Lucille offered her victim the mixture. "It doesn't smell like very good wine."

"I expect it to be quite terrible." Phyllis managed a small smile. She was already beginning to relax. "Thank you, Mrs. Butte. I don't know how I will ever be able to repay you."

"Repayment won't be necessary. Let's just say I'm helping you as I've been helped in the past."

Miss Baxter took a sip of the wine and winced. "Quite dreadful, as expected."

"Best just drink it quickly then." Mrs. Butte suggested, nervous that Miss Baxter might change her mind.

"Good idea." Phyllis pinched her nose and drank down the wine and opium in one great swig. She gave a little shudder at the bitter taste and set down the glass. She walked over to lay down on the rickety and dirty bed.

"And now, we wait." Lucille smiled and sat in the chair facing the door, the gun sitting, loaded, on the table beside her. It took the exhausted Miss Baxter only a few minutes to slip off into a troubled sleep.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN If you have any requests for people who get their proper comeuppance, just drop me a note and I will try to accommodate. We will be leaving London very soon and returning to Downton, so ****_anyone_**** is fair game; upstairs or down.**

**I will give warnings for the more graphic chapters, but do expect at a death every other chapter or so.**


	21. Warped Justice

**Trigger Warning: This is not a graphic chapter, but it does have some content that some would find objectionable; gun violence and an innocent person in distress.**

* * *

><p>It was approaching midnight. Lucille watched Miss Baxter sleep for a little while, knowing she had to wait a very little for the drug to reach its height of efficacy. She had learned from painful experience how quickly the opium would alter its consumer. <em>Soon,<em> she thought. _Soon, Father, your pain will be answered in kind._

Lucille knew that her brand of justice was not one of which polite society would approve. Taking an innocent life in exchange for an innocent life didn't balance the books for most people, but there was a beautiful symmetry to it that Lucille appreciated. Hadn't Providence sent her this lamb? Hadn't she been guided to this moment? Why then was she experiencing doubts? _No, not doubts_, she told herself. What she was experiencing was the moment of lucidity the executioner feels before raising his blade; the divine clarity of knowing you are the hand delivering the righteous pronouncement of Heaven.

-00-

Joseph Molesley was frantic. The family would be leaving London soon and he had not found Phyllis yet. He knew she was married and he knew there was no future for them, but still, he needed to see her. He needed to tell her that she was forgiven, to tell her that being near her was enough and to promise that he would help her in any way he could. His time to do so was running out.

Hopelessness and despair closed in on him as he paced in the sunken servant's stairwell of Grantham House. The steps to the London street level taunted him. It was just past nine o'clock. He was considering breaking curfew to search for her, but where could he look and what good would it do to search in the dark?

"Mr. Molesley?" Joseph looked up to see a familiar face.

"Mr. Nash? What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for Mrs. Butte. I wanted to ask her a question, but perhaps you could answer it."

"I shall try."

"It's only that I was wondering if there is a specific inspector or constable I should talk to about Miss Baxter."

-00-

Lucille had rearranged the furniture and removed the lamp shade so that the room took on a sharp and alien quality. She took up the gun and replaced it with the wine bottle. Running through her plan one last time, Lucille took a deep breath. This was a gamble and it was possible she would be caught, but Miss Phyllis 'Baxter' Hoxton-Fletcher would definitely pay the price tonight. There was a sense of relief when Lucille considered being caught. Finally, Charles would see all she had done for him.

She would leave it to Providence. It was time.

"Miss Baxter! Wake up! Miss Baxter! Phyllis! They've found us! We have to run!" Lucille upended furniture and stirred up just enough chaos to rouse the sleeping woman. Phyllis was in a delirium of numbness from the opium, the room swam around her in soft waves of color and visible sound. Nothing made sense. The only thought she could hold on to was, _'They've found us!'_

Phyllis stumbled towards the table where she had left the gun, but her hand found a bottle of wine instead. She knocked the bottle off the table. It shattered on the floor as she tripped over a chair that had not been there when she lay down. Phyllis fell forward into the red wine and broken shards on the floor. She did not feel the glass cut her hands and knees as she scrambled to her wobbly feet.

Her disorientation increased when she tried to focus on Mrs. Butte. Phyllis could not find the words to ask for help, but merely reached for the woman in silent petition.

"Follow me." Mrs. Butte said in an incongruously calm voice that cut through the confusion in Phyllis' head. "I know somewhere safe."

"Joseph?" Phyllis managed to speak though her tongue felt too big for her mouth.

"Yes, he'll be there." The blur assured her. Phyllis just wanted to sleep. Her limbs and her head felt heavy and thick. Her beleaguered mind told her if she could just get to Joseph, it would be alright. "Follow me."

Unaware of the blood on her hands and knees, Phyllis lurched after Mrs. Butte's voice like a starving man would lunge for a crust of bread.

"This way." The voice assured her.

In her disorientation, Phyllis did not stop to wonder why they were climbing up the stairs instead of down. She did not pause for even a second when she encountered a ladder bolted to the wall and the voice told her to climb. Soon, they both stood on the roof of the building which jutted out over the river. On three of the four sides of the inn, the Thames flowed by ceaselessly.

Cool air met Phyllis' sweaty face and her mind cleared momentarily as she stood at the edge of the rooftop. She realized there was nowhere else to go. She turned unsteadily to her guide. "What now?"

"The only place to go is down." Lucille pointed out. "But first, you need to know who I am."

"Who you are?" Phyllis asked stupidly. The numbness was returning.

"My name was Lucille Grovesner. Your family killed my father."

Phyllis looked suddenly sad. The weight of her limbs and body were finally too much and they pulled her down to her knees. "They killed a lot of people's fathers."

"If I could reach them, I would kill them, but fate has brought _you_ to me instead." Lucille explained. "Death would be too easy for them. They have to know what it is to lose one of their own. I am sorry. I bear you no ill will."

"Sorry?" The drug addled woman mumbled.

This was not as much fun as Lucille had expected. It was not as much fun as killing Ethel or Sir Richard or Mr. Bryant. "I have to kill you."

"Me?"

"I am sorry." She raised the gun towards the kneeling and swaying woman. "Stand up."

Phyllis obeyed even though she had not yet registered the presence of the gun.

"Now, jump."

The voice was so reasonable that Phyllis almost obeyed, but then she heard someone calling her name.

"Phyllis!"

It was Joseph! He had found her. Adrenaline rushed through her veins, combating the effects of the opium, if just for a little while.

-00-

Molesley could not believe what he was seeing in the dying moonlight. What was Phyllis doing on the roof? Only a few moments ago, the tavern landlord had shown Molesley, Detective Inspector Vance and Constable Norris to her empty room which showed signs of a very recent struggle; the pool of wine was still spreading on the floorboards.

Molesley and the constable had run back down the steps hoping for a sign of Phyllis or her attacker, but Detective Vance had stayed to look for clues. Joseph had looked up to see Vance beginning to climb a ladder to the roof. That's when he saw her. He could only see the top of her head and a hand, but, even in the poor light, he knew it was her.

"Phyllis!"

-00-

"Mrs. Butte?" Detective Vance said with wonder as he reached the top of the ladder. He had followed a trail of fresh blood to the base of the ladder using his torch. Seeing blood on the rungs of the ladder, Vance had put away the light, pulled his revolver and climbed the ladder.

Lucille had hidden the gun behind her back at Mr. Molesley's call. "Detective! Thank goodness, she's half mad. She thinks someone is out to get her."

He finished climbing the ladder and held his gun down at his side. "What are you doing here?"

"Mr. Nash told me where to find her. I thought I could talk to her and bring her back to Grantham House without bothering the authorities."

"What happened back in the room?"

"I found her with this." She held up the Tincture of Opiate bottle for him to see. "I think she drank it all. She's quite altered."

Vance turned his attention now to the woman precariously perched at the edge of the roof. "Miss Baxter, please calm down."

Phyllis could not follow the conversation of the man and woman before her. They both had guns, she knew that. They both thought she was mad. They were the enemy, but Joseph was near. _'The only place to go is down.' _Phyllis thought. Where had she heard that?_ 'Joseph is down there.'_

"Miss Baxter!" The Detective cried out as the delusional woman turned back to the edge of the roof.

_'The water is right there. It will catch me. Joseph is there.'_ Phyllis told herself, though she could not see the surface of the Thames in the darkness. The moon had slipped behind some clouds and the night was as dark as London could be at night.

"Stop, Phyllis." Lucille said quietly, knowing calm was the only way to reach the Lady's maid. Phyllis obeyed.

Detective Vance sighed in relief. "Thank you, Mrs. Butte."

"I'm sorry, Detective." Lucille said as she raised the gun and fired.

From the ground level, Molesley saw a flash like lightening just as he heard the loud report of the gun; two flashes and two bangs. These were followed immediately by another brace of sounds; two splashes.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN This was meant to be the cliffhanger, but I won't leave you hanging for long. We'll plow right into 'Season 2'. I really appreciate reviews, I know this isn't a fluffy, mainstream story, but I'd like to hear from you, nonetheless.  
><strong>


	22. After Splashdown

**AN/ This chapter is pretty tame.  
><strong>

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><p>"What were you thinking, Mr. Molesley? Jumping into the river wasn't going to help anyone." Elsie was still trying to dry the fidgeting man's hair as he sat wrapped in a blanket in the Lock and Keel. Charles and Elsie had accompanied the police and Mr. Molesley to the tavern, but had waited inside while they went to Miss Baxter's room.<p>

At the sound of the shots and the splashes, everyone in the tavern had run outside. They tried to light the surface of the water with torches and lanterns.

Molesley had seen something floating in the river and had jumped in after it, failing to take into account the fact that he could not swim. If Elsie had not seen him jump into the water, it was unclear what would have happened to the man. As it was, she grabbed a torch from someone and shone it on the spot he went into the water as Charles jumped in after the sinking man.

Men in a row boat managed to recover the floating 'something' Molesley had seen. It was Detective Vance. The man had been shot once, right in the middle of his chest. It was not a shot that would have killed him instantly.

"He was probably killed by the fall." Constable Norris said, trying to remain professional and detached, though his hands were clenched in fists of anger.

"I don't think it matters what killed him." Elsie said. "I think it is 'who' killed him that matters. I can't see Miss Baxter shooting anyone."

"She was afraid for her life." Charles reminded her as he sat, wrapped in his own blanket, beside Molesley.

"I know she had a gun." Molesley said quietly. "She told me once. She bought it during the war, for protection."

"Do you think she held a gun on the Detective and they ended up shooting each other?" Elsie asked, horrified at the senseless waste of it all.

"That's what it looks like," Constable Norris confirmed.

Elsie rolled her eyes at the Constable. She wouldn't trust his judgment if he told her the sky was blue.

"Maybe he didn't shoot her." Molesley offered hopefully.

Carson put a hand on the man's shoulder. "It's not likely, Mr. Molesley. Why else would she have fallen?"

"I…I don't know," came the defeated reply. "Maybe she survived the fall."

"Maybe." Carson said quietly. There was no reason to argue with Molesley now. _Let the man have his hope until they find the body,_ Carson thought.

"Our men will watch the river. If anyone climbs out, we'll know." Norris assured them with clenched teeth. "We'll find her."

Elsie bit her tongue to keep from openly scoffing at the man. After all, he was in pain too.

-00-

"You missed all the excitement last night." Mrs. Patmore told Mrs. Butte the next door the second she arrived.

"Excitement?"

"They found Miss Baxter."

"Yes, I know. Mr. Nash told me yesterday." Mrs. Butte kept her voice nonchalant. "But he said he wasn't going to bother the police until this morning."

Lucille had not missed any excitement last night. In fact, she'd had her fill for a time. She'd hidden in a dark corner of the rooftop with Miss Baxter's gun waiting to be found. She had four bullets left. She was prepared to use all of them, but no one ever came. Without Vance's leadership, all was in the confusion along the water. In the darkness, Lucille managed to slip back down the ladder, blend into the crowd of curious onlookers and make her escape.

Due to the lack of light, the police had not bothered to search the roof until dawn. They found two spent casings, an empty bottle of opiate and nothing more of note. Detective Vance would have pointed out that there were two sets of women's footprints in the gravel of the roof, but he was not there to help his men investigate his death.

"Has Lady Grantham forgiven her? Is she to return?" Lucille asked. Feigning polite curiosity.

"Not unless she returns from a watery grave first." Mrs. Patmore tsked sadly. "Poor thing went into the river and hasn't been seen; likely she's dead. Detective Vance is dead too."

"What? What happened? Did her family find her?"

"She was taking opium and was out of her head. They think she shot the detective and jumped into the river. She might have been shot herself, but they can't say."

"That's terrible." Lucille shook her head with sincere sympathy. Now that it was over, she could feel sorry for her victim. She didn't regret her actions, but she could still pity the lamb. If only she could be certain that Miss Baxter was dead, Lucille could rest easier.

-00-

"There's something I'd like you to see, Mum." Lucille held the paper out like an offering to a hungry lion.

'Crime Family Reunion!' the headline proclaimed. It had taken only one day for the whole grisly story of Mr. Barrow and Miss Baxter to find its way to the more tawdry press. They had loved the idea of a servant killing people right under his masters' noses, but they had really latched on to the idea of the daughter of a notorious criminal family hiding in the household of one of England's nobility. Much was made of the fact that this 'unstable, ticking bomb of a woman' had been in the same house as a prince of England.

The part that interested Lucille and her mother the most, however, concerned Phyllis' husband and family. The names of Hoxton and Fletcher were once more being vilified in the press. Though Lucille's father was not mentioned by name, the world was being reminded of their misdeeds and crimes against society.

There was an insert with sketches of the known members of the Hoxton gang, incarcerated or not. One of these showed Phyllis' husband. The artist had captured a man with a ratty face with mean little eyes and a scar on his chin. Evangeline stared at the picture and seemed to recognize him, which was enough for Lucille to believe he had taken part in her father's death.

To add to the public humiliation, allegations of corruption resurfaced as the paper pointed out that most people would have been hung for the crimes for which various members were now serving time. Finally, here was a memorial befitting her father's suffering.

Evangeline looked at the papers and smiled. "I can hardly wait for the book." She said, nonsensically as she shuffled to the shelf containing their family story. Lucille knew she would be up half the night rereading it all from start to finish. Lucille hoped that these new stories would help her mother find some peace in the narrative that was her life. Maybe she would see the justice they had been given.

"Leave her be tonight, dear." Lucille told Nellie as she headed back to Grantham House. "She'll be reading late."

-00-

"He still won't eat." Mrs. Patmore told Mrs. Butte.

"The man's had a nasty shock."

"He'll starve if he keeps this up." The worried cook insisted.

"Mention it to Mr. Carson. I don't have any power over a footman."

"But he trusts you."

"I'll see what I can do." Mrs. Butte agreed reluctantly.

She found Mr. Molesley polishing the brass on the light fixtures in the upper hallway.

"If you polish that any more, there won't be any metal left." She joked.

"What does it matter?" Molesley moped. "What does anything matter?"

"I leave those questions up to the philosophers, Mr. Molesley."

"And what do they say?"

"I think the consensus is that nothing matters."

He looked at her in astonishment. "That's not very optimistic."

"I don't think philosophers are very optimistic by nature. Thankfully, most of us are too busy to be that melancholy."

"Most of us don't lose the love of our lives."

"Is that so? There are thousands of widows in England who would beg to differ." Lucille said not unkindly. "I should think a broken heart is one of the most common human experiences. It's just not one we can share."

Molesley didn't know what to say to this. He had forgotten that he was speaking to a widow.

"Things are bad, Mr. Molesley, there's no denying it, but you won't improve things by starving yourself to death. Leave that polishing and report to Mrs. Patmore. She has some stew for you."

He looked down at the rag in his hands as though wondering how it had gotten there. Eventually, he nodded in defeat, gathered up the polishing implements and shuffled off to find Mrs. Patmore.

-00-

"I'm sorry you had to get mixed up in this, Mr. Toby." Charles was saying again. Just when they thought all the nasty business was behind them, the workmen had found bones in the old boiler as they removed it to make room for the new.

"It weren't too gruesome. They'd been in there a while. It will just delay things, Mr. Carson. You may be without hot water for a few days."

"We are leaving tomorrow, so that won't matter. We'll heat water on the stove for today."

Several Constables were shoveling ashes and bones out of the boiler's furnace into large paper bags.

"We're assuming these are Miss Stuart's or Mr. Bryant's remains, but we'll need to confirm that and make sure there aren't more victims." Sergeant Norris informed Carson and Mrs. Butte.

"Still no sign of Miss Baxter?" Carson asked. Lucille was glad he had.

"We found three bodies in the river since that night, none of them women." The newly promoted Sergeant answered. "We're still on the lookout and will tell you if we find anything."

Carson was beginning to agree with Elsie, he didn't think this lot could find their asses with both hands tied behind their backs.

The telephone jangled and Carson went to answer.

"Mrs. Butte, it's for you."

"For me? Who is it?"

"They didn't say."

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN A call from beyond the grave, perhaps? ****There will be a body in the next chapter... ****Have I mentioned that I love cliffhangers?**


	23. Ashes

**AN/ Gore free chapter...but not death free.**

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><p>"She certainly knew what she was doing." The doctor commented. "She kept the fire contained to this room and kept the rest of the house safe."<p>

Lucille could not believe what had happened. She stood with the doctor and looked at the blackened ashes in the fire grate of the upstairs room, some spilling out onto the floor of the room. Her mother's collection of newspaper clippings, scraps of paper and cheap novels had been piled together and burnt. Evangeline sat in her chair as though she were sleeping.

"Asphyxiation. The fire took up all the oxygen in the room once she sealed the door and windows and closed the flue." The man said clinically before adding kindly. "She won't have suffered."

Lucille stopped herself from replying angrily, _'You don't know what she suffered.'_ How could he know? How could anyone? No one cared for anything beyond themselves and the narrow scope of their own lives.

"Mum?" Nellie's voice called her mother back.

"Come here, dear." Lucille hugged her daughter to her. Family is all that matters. Evangeline Grovesner knew this. This bizarre suicide was her way of freeing her daughter from the past. Was this because of the closure she had received from hearing of Miss Baxter's death? Lucille wondered how much her mother had really known. Had this been a lucid act or one of madness? The line was so fine, it really didn't matter. Her mother was dead. Lucille was devastated; she felt an emptiness that almost crippled her, though her exterior was placid.

But there was another feeling; a feeling even stronger than her sorrow. It was gratitude. The anchor, the albatross, was gone. Lucille felt hopeful for the first time since she was a girl finding her catatonic mother in her father's gory murder scene. Now she could look forward rather than back. She could care properly for the girl in her arms, could give her a proper home. Maybe even a proper father. _Thank you, mum,_ she thought.

"Have you heard from Clive?"

"I've sent word to the usual places, mum. He'll hear."

-00-

"You shouldn't even be here today, Mrs. Butte. I was very sorry to hear that your mother had died, but are you quite sure this drastic change is what you want?"

"It would give me the opportunity to be with my Nellie, milady." Lucille said honestly. "I know you've been considering having Mrs. Hughes run Grantham House next Season and I'd appreciate the opportunity to continue to serve this noble family."

Cora was duly flattered. "Have you ever been a Lady's maid?"

"No, milady." Lucille admitted. "But I've raised a son and daughter and I've looked after my mother, who has been unwell since I was a young girl. I am a fair hand at mending, I am familiar with Your Ladyship's wardrobe and I know all the rules of society. I believe I could make a very good Lady's maid."

Cora considered silently. It seemed only fair to offer Mrs. Butte this opportunity. It was obvious that she was an intelligent woman and very willing to learn.

"I only know of one skill that I lack to be a proper Lady's maid." Lucille offered.

"And what might that be?"

"I am not a very good gossip." She smiled as Lady Grantham laughed. "But I am willing to learn."

"I shall be happy to teach you, Mrs. Butte."

-00-

"I've never been so glad to be home." Lord Grantham declared as Bates took his traveling coat, hat and gloves.

"It was certainly an eventful Season." Lady Grantham agreed as Mrs. Butte took her cloak.

Carson and the secret Mrs. Carson stood side by side awaiting instructions from their employers.

"I suppose we will have to start planning the garden party soon." An exasperated Lady Grantham sighed as she headed up the stairs. "We'll meet tomorrow, Mrs. Hughes. Rose, if there are any young men you would like for me to invite, please let me know before the end of the week."

"I will, Cousin Cora."

"I assume you'll want your trio there, Mary?" Her mother teased quietly as they walked up the stairs.

"Trio? I think Mr. Napier has decided this business is beneath his dignity. Not that I can blame him. I'm starting to feel the same way myself."

"Mr. Blake and Lord Gillingham only, then?"

"It's still two too many, but I fear they would show up without invitations regardless, so we ought not force them to be rude."

-00-

The marriage of the butler and housekeeper was made public knowledge a few days after the family's return to Downton. It was a shock to most, but a welcome one. Carson's fears that his new status might undermine his authority proved unfounded. He and Elsie had earned the respect of everyone in the household long ago. People were genuinely happy for them both.

There had been some murmurings in the village, but most of the gossip was about Mr. Barrow and Miss Baxter. The Carson's were too happy and dull to make good sport for more than a week.

People did find sport in noticing Mr. Branson's new addition, however. Tom had returned with little Tommy just before the family's return. He had hastily removed himself from the Abbey and set up his home in the agent's cottage. He had hired a young girl from the village to serve as nurse to the baby and nanny to Sybbie.

Thankfully, no one commented on the new baby at Yew Tree Farm. Nor did they notice the new interest Lady Edith took in the pigs.

Beyond the change of circumstance for the heads of household, there were many other adjustments below stairs. Still, considering all the losses of the Season, things weren't as chaotic as they could have been.

Nellie and Mrs. Butte were settling into the Downton routine rather nicely. Mrs. Carson was being forced to reevaluate her assessment of Mrs. Butte. She had to admit that the woman was an attentive and loving mother. Lucille was good at her job and was careful not to interfere with Mrs. Patmore's training of Nellie, which was noticed and appreciated by the cook. "Though she still as interesting as a wet noodle." Beryl confided in Elsie one night as they shared a sherry in the housekeeper's sitting room while Elise waited for Charles to be done in the drawing room upstairs.

Mr. Molesley, now elevated to first footman, had gained a solemnity from his grief and poured all of his attention into his work. There had still been no sign of Miss Baxter.

Mr. Molesley and Mrs. Butte were in charge of the household after Mr. and Mrs. Carson retired for the evening. Subsequently, they were thrown together more and Mrs. Butte had become the poor man's closest confidant. She tolerated his melancholy mood and unwittingly soothed it with her cold pragmatism. Anna noticed the odd friendship and commented to Mr. Bates one night on their walk home that she thought Mr. Molesley might be considering a transfer of his affections.

"To Mrs. Butte? That seems unlikely. Miss Baxter has only been gone a very little while and Mrs. Butte is nothing like Miss Baxter."

"Mr. Molesley has always been rather desperate for attention. Mrs. Butte certainly has more patience for him than anyone else. In that sense, she is very like Miss Baxter."

"Patience is not love." John reminded her.

"No, but Love is patient."

-00-

Lucille was being patient for her love, but it was not Mr. Molesley. Her affection was still solely for Mr. Carson. She was thrilled that she would be with Mr. Carson year round now, as close to him as ever before. She sat to his immediate left at meal time where he talked to her politely, as he had at Grantham House. Most of the time, Lucille conveniently ignored the smug, Scottish she wolf immediately opposite her.

Mr. Carson was being especially supportive of Nellie and it made Lucille happy beyond words to see the two interacting. The image of the three of them as a family took seed in Lucille's fertile imagination, watered by her madness. Slowly, Lucille was able to convince herself that there was no real affection between her Charles and his wife. Her willful delusion allowed her to overlook their obvious happiness. She was careful never to listen at doors when they were alone together. There were times when Lucille was almost content.

Lucille could not be completely blamed for thinking as she did. The Carsons were very guarded in their public displays of affection. Their manner during working hours was professional and courteous, nothing more. There were some in the household who were convinced it was a marriage of convenience, that both were simply afraid of dying alone or wanted a bigger living space. This suited the Carsons just fine. What the world thought of their union did not concern either Charles or Elsie. They knew what they had. They each knew the secret passions of their lover and were content to keep that secret sacred. They knew the intimacies they shared upon returning to their little, semidetached cottage each evening and, occasionally, in her sitting room or his pantry.

-00-

"I have another guest for your party, Cousin Cora." Rose declared at family dinner two weeks after their return to Downton.

"Another? Rose, you've already invited three young men and their families."

"I am afraid you won't have a choice in this case. Mama will be very insulted if you exclude her."

Around the table, forks were lowered and shocked faces all turned to Rose. She loved the attention.

"Your mother is coming back to England?" Cora marveled.

"Only for a few months. She didn't say why. Papa is staying on in India."

"Will she be bringing that horrible traitor with her?" Mary asked, returning to her meal.

"I imagine so; I am sorry." Rose apologized.

"It was over two years ago, Mary. You will be polite to Lady Flintshire." Lady Grantham instructed. "Hopefully, Miss O'Brien will have the sense to keep her head down and not make herself known."

"If she doesn't, Mrs. Carson will set her straight." Mary smiled at the thought.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I feel badly offing Lucille's mum, but she was an impediment to moving our crazy lady to Downton and it was a mercy killing.  
><strong>

**Oh, well now, look who's coming to Downton! Our old friends Susan Macclare and Sarah O'Brien. And just when I was running out of despicable people. How very convenient ;)**


	24. O'Brien Returns

**AN/ Updated to change Flincher to Flitshire. Today's lesson: Homophones. Thank you to chelsie fan for pointing it out.**

**Sorry for the confusion, I misposted. I hope it's all good now...**

* * *

><p>"Haven't we endured enough evil for one Season?" Elsie lamented. "Now we have to let that woman back into our lives?"<p>

"Are you referring to Miss O'Brien or Lady Flintshire?" Elsie rolled her eyes at him.

"Both, I suppose."

Charles could not help but be amused by his wife's reaction to the news of Lady Flintshire's impending arrival as they walked home through the gardens. "The Season wasn't all evil." He reminded her, kissing the ring on her hand. "Maybe all this misfortune is to balance out our happiness?"

"Do you believe in Karma now, Charles?" Elsie smiled at her husband's odd sense of romanticism.

"I believe in balance and order, as always."

"Daft man." Elsie reproved him as she unlocked the door. "Why isn't Lady Flintshire staying at the Dower House like she usually does?"

"This is not a visit to see the Dowager, but to meet some of Lady Rose's suitors." Charles helped Elsie out of her coat and hung it beside their door before removing his own.

"If she was so interested in Lady Rose's prospects, she would have come to London for the Season." Elsie pointed out as she retrieved two glasses from the kitchen.

"It doesn't make any sense to me either, but there it is." Charles unstopped the sherry decanter and poured the wine. "Now, let's not think any more on this unpleasantness tonight."

They settled down on their sofa cozy and content.

"I believe you were telling me about the summer you built a fort in the woods." He reminded her, picking up where they'd left off the night before.

"It was quite a fort. It had a moat and many defenses." Elsie laughed as she remembered. "Things really got interesting when some of the local boys decided to invade. Caylen and I held off ten attackers by ourselves."

"It doesn't surprise me." Charles chuckled.

The rest of their evening, Elsie regaled Charles with the tale of The Battle of Glen Hughes.

-00-

"I want you to find out why Lady Flintshire is here, Mrs. Butte."

"I thought she was coming to see her daughter, milady."

"There's more to it than that." Cora insisted.

"Perhaps she was just homesick for a traditional English garden party?"

"Lady Flintshire detests garden parties and I am sure she gets her fill of them in India. She has only come to one Downton party since I became Countess, even when they were just in Scotland. Now, she comes back from _India?_" Lady Grantham mused. "Just keep an eye on them both."

"Yes, milady."

-00-

Sarah O'Brien made sure to be in the last car arriving at Downton from the station. She went directly to the back entrance and did not dare brave the glare of the Mistress of the house.

"'By the pricking of my thumbs…'" Mrs. Patmore smirked from the kitchen doorway as O'Brien snuck in with the luggage.

"It's good to see some things never change." Sarah retorted.

"There are some things that certainly ought to; your hairstyle for one." Beryl triumphed before returning to her kitchen kingdom.

"Welcome back, Miss O'Brien." Anna said with all the generosity she could muster. The reception party upstairs had been small and Anna had been excused.

"Chipper as always, Mrs. Bates? Doesn't that get tiring?"

"No more than scowling all time, I shouldn't wonder." Anna gathered her tatting and left the servant's hall. She was determined to be civil to O'Brien, but there was no need to subject herself to the woman's presence any more than was necessary.

Mrs. Carson came bustling in the back door with the other members of Lady Flintshire's welcoming committee. She addressed O'Brien crisply. "We're anticipating quite a full house in the next few days, Miss O'Brien. You'll be sharing your old room with Mrs. Butte."

"Mrs. Butte?" Sarah had known her during her time at Grantham House, but was surprised to learn of her being at Downton.

"She was kind enough to take over as Lady Grantham's maid after the unfortunate business with Miss Baxter."

"Ah, yes. I heard all about that." O'Brien oozed. She and Lady Flintshire had indeed been informed of the strange happenings of the Season. In fact, that was the reason they were here; even if Lady Flintshire did not know it.

-00-

"A lot has changed since you went away, Miss O'Brien." Mrs. Butte chirped as the Irishwoman unpacked her small bag that evening.

"I can see that, Mrs. Butte. A lot has changed, and a lot hasn't." After one short dinner, Sarah could see that Mrs. Butte was still in love with Mr. Carson. Mrs. Butte had been clearly upset at giving up her usual dining place beside Mr. Carson to the visiting Miss O'Brien, as was customary.

Sarah had noticed the woman's infatuation with the butler the first Season Mrs. Butte had been at Grantham House. She had refrained from teasing the woman about it because Mrs. Butte outranked her, but had tucked that information away for a rainy day. Sarah had always been wary of the tiny woman, sensing something cagey in Mrs. Butte.

"Mr. Carson seems very happy." O'Brien ventured, and was rewarded by seeing Mrs. Butte's smile falter ever so slightly. "And _Mrs._ Carson."

"You would need to ask the people in question. I cannot answer for either of them." There was a small flash of that unquantifiable something that always made O'Brien tread softly around Mrs. Butte. Sarah suspected that Mrs. Butte was almost as capable of cold and calculating actions as herself. Sarah was not interested in becoming enemies with Mrs. Butte; quite the opposite.

"I shouldn't wonder if it's just a marriage of convenience." O'Brien continued, trying to soothe her potential ally. "I can't imagine much love there, really."

"I hadn't imagined one way or the other." Mrs. Butte returned unconvincingly.

"Yes, well, we won't waste any more time considering them. I'm much more curious about Mr. Barrow and Miss Baxter." Sarah steered the conversation to her desired subjects.

"It was a terrible business." Lucille gave the rote answer.

"Yes, so I've heard. I've heard some details, but you're an observant woman, Mrs. Butte. I'd like to hear what you know. What have people missed?"

"Why do you care to know?"

"Though we had a falling out, Mr. Barrow was once my friend. I find it hard to imagine that he would have done the things they say he did."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I think the authorities may have closed the books on this case too soon." O'Brien confided. "I'd like to understand exactly how all this happened. Can you help me?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure that I could."

"Just tell me everything you saw and I can take it from there, Mrs. Butte."

"I don't think that's a very good idea."

"What if I do something for you in return?"

"What could you do for me, Miss O'Brien?"

"How would you like to have some fun at the expense of Mr. and Mrs. Carson?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why not test the strength of their marriage?" O'Brien offered.

"How?" This idea intrigued Lucille and she could not hide it.

"Leave that to me."

-00-

Tensions were high at Downton Abbey. Downstairs, Miss O'Brien walked around with an air of smug entitlement. It was like the specter of Thomas had returned; smoking and slithering around the house. Upstairs, Lady Flintshire tormented her daughter with constant criticism. Lucille watched O'Brien with eagle eyes, afraid to trust her, but curious to see what she had in store for the Carsons.

The house had developed a taut and nervous atmosphere.

"I thought you were exaggerating what Lady Rose had to endure." Elsie was taking tea with Anna in her sitting room, taking a brief break from the tension.

"She's even worse than she was in Scotland." Anna said sympathetically.

"Lady Rose is a vain thing, to be sure, but she's sweet enough. I don't understand how Lady Flintshire finds so much to disparage in her own daughter."

"I think being so completely unhappy must wear one down over time."

"And being attended by Miss O'Brien while in exile probably doesn't help." Mrs. Carson allowed.

"I imagine not."

There was a knock at the door. "Afternoon post is here, Mrs. Carson." A hall boy informed her. "Mr. Carson said to bring it to you since he would be in the drawing room."

Charles had made it his business to attend Lady Flintshire wherever she went. It was not because he enjoyed the work, but because it was such torture on Mr. Molesley and the new footman. When Elsie suggested one night before bed that he share the unpleasant task of attending Lady Flintshire, he had only shrugged and said, "She's wearying, I'll admit, but I can take it, love. Mr. Molesley and Timothy don't have what I have."

"What's that?"

"I have you."

He had been rewarded for that compliment.

Elsie smiled as she sifted through the post; bills, a few last minute RSVP's for the garden party, some correspondence for the family and an envelope addressed to Mr. Carson. Elsie made note of this last as she lay it on his desk, but soon she had forgotten all about it.

"Timothy pulled the wrong pudding wine again." Elsie told Charles as he headed into his pantry. He picked up the wine on his desk and confirmed that she was right. It was indeed the wrong passito.

"Thank you for catching this, love." He smiled at her before she turned to leave. He sat down at his desk. She saw him pick up the envelope and eye it suspiciously. A little ways down the hall, a thought occurred to her.

When she stepped back into his office doorway, she saw that Charles' demeanor had changed. He was flushed and he looked up nervously when he heard her.

"Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine." She saw the lie written on his face like the mark of Cain. "Did you need something?"

"I only thought. That is, are you entirely sure that Timothy can read script, Charles?"

"Yes, love, I made sure he could read quite well, even the fancy script they use on the wines. He just gets in a hurry and has not developed an eye for details. I'll talk to him about it." He spoke quickly and nervously. She pretended not to notice. They could talk later.

Elsie paused after she turned and looked back. Charles was hastily shoving the suddenly interesting letter into his pocket.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN That O'Brien, up to no good again;) Thank you for the reviews and for following this story.**


	25. The Letter

**AN/ Like the rest of us, Elsie wants to know what was in the letter...**

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><p>That evening, Elsie was seeing to some last minute arrangements for the next day when she saw Charles emerging from the kitchen, wiping his hands as if to knock dust, <em>or soot<em>, off of them.

"Are you ready to go, love?" He asked jovially.

"Almost. I'll meet you by the door in a few."

Five minutes later, she found him waiting patiently, holding her light summer coat out for her to slip into. Charles whistled a little tune as they walked home, as he often did for her amusement. Tonight, however, it did not amuse her. He had obviously lied to her earlier in the day and it was not bothering his conscience one bit. Finally, she could not stand the hypocrisy.

"You're pleased with yourself."

"Is my whistling annoying you, love? Did you have a rough day? Do you have a headache?" His concern was instantaneous and loving, but it only provoked her further.

"_My_ day was just fine. How was _yours_?" She asked pointedly.

Charles was beyond confused. He was a little frightened. "Elsie, is there something wrong?"

"You tell me."

"I am not _aware_ of something being wrong, but I cannot unequivocally state that everything is fine," he chose his words carefully. His tone was as neutral as he could make it.

"Well, at least you won't lie to me about_ that_." Elsie jammed the key in the lock on their front door. Despite a lifetime of handling keys, she struggled to get the door unlocked.

"And what, pray tell am I meant to have lied about?" Charles was immediately on the defensive. He had not lied to her, he told himself. He was always honest with her, unless it was to protect her. Then, he remembered the letter and realized that she must have seen. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed." Elsie flung the door open, stomped inside and slammed the door closed in his face. He took a deep breath and calmed himself before he tried the handle. To his relief, it was unlocked. She was mad, but she wasn't _that_ mad. He thought she would understand when he explained.

When he entered the cottage, Charles ventured cautiously towards the kitchen, the source of much slamming of cabinet doors and the banging of a tea kettle.

"You want to know about the letter." It was not a question.

"What letter?" She asked with exaggerated disinterest.

"The strange letter I received today. Not that you were to know it was strange, unless you read it."

"Are you accusing me of reading it?"

"I know that you didn't, but how did you know there was anything to it? I get letters every day that I don't discuss with you."

"I can read _you_, Charles Carson, more clearly than any words scribbled on a page."

"I shall bear that in mind in future." He tried to break the tension with this small jest, but was met with a glare.

The kettle began to whistle as the water came to a boil, much like her temper. Elsie wet the leaves and took a tea tray into their sitting room. There was only one cup on the tray. Charles understood the message; she was not ready to talk to him yet. He busied himself in the kitchen for a few minutes, percolating himself some coffee. When he came into the sitting room with his mug, he found her in one of the chairs, not on the sofa as he had hoped.

"Can I tell you about it now?" He asked permission, but he was not a supplicant. She would hear what he had to say, whether she wanted to or not. He had been tolerant with her temper long enough. She had a right to be upset, but she had no cause to be this petulant with him. Marriage was about give and take. It was time for her to give him the benefit of the doubt.

When she did not answer, Charles sat down on the sofa as far away from Elsie as possible. "That letter was someone's idea of a joke, though not a very funny one."

"May I read it?"

"No." He raised his hands to cut off the protest he knew was coming. "I've burned it. It was vulgar and I didn't want anyone to find it, even on accident. Not with my name on it."

"Vulgar?"

"Someone wrote to me claiming to be a woman I knew when I was on the halls. They implied a relationship between me and themselves. They were graphic in their descriptions."

"Who was she?"

"The name on the letter was Claudette Emerson. She was a solo act. We _were_ on the same bill a few times, but I didn't really know her." Charles shrugged. "She was hardly even an acquaintance, let alone a friend and she was certainly never what that letter claimed."

"What did the letter claim?"

"That she and I had been intimate. That, since her days performing, she had turned to prostitution and that I was a regular visitor during the Season." Charles said plainly struggling keeping his own anger at bay. "The letter was asking why I hadn't visited this year, even though we all know why."

"Because you married me?" Elsie asked, dreading the answer.

"Because these are all lies. I have no idea what Ms. Emerson might be up to and nor, I think does the person who wrote that letter. Someone sent it to cause trouble. One guess who. It's best destroyed and forgotten."

"I won't be angry if you had…" She couldn't even say it. "After all, society holds men to different standards than women."

"Which we both agree is wrong."

"It is nature that holds women more accountable than men; society just followed suit." Elsie said sagely. "You can tell me, Charles. The important thing is to always be honest with each other."

His indignation cooled a bit and he said softly. "Elsie, you and I have already discussed our past experiences. Or lack thereof."

"And you told me everything?" She was calmer now and could see his sincerity clearly.

"Everything. The closest I got to a physical relationship before you was that kitchen maid who taught me how to kiss." Charles smiled to remember the first time he'd told Elsie that story. "And I was nothing special to her; she kissed everyone."

"Maybe that's why she was such a good teacher." Elsie set aside her tea cup and moved to sit beside Charles on the sofa. "I'm sorry, Charles. It's just not like us to keep anything from each other and when I saw you hide that letter…"

"You could have asked me then."

"You looked flushed and bothered." She stroked his cheek gently, remembering how he'd looked with the color rising from his neck to his ears. He was so adorable when he was flustered. "Was the letter _very _risqué?"

"_Very_." He rolled his 'R' like hers, teasingly.

"Then if I am to drive it from your mind, I'll need to be even more risqué."

And so, Sarah O'Brien's attempt to drive a wedge between Charles and Elsie became just another thing that brought them closer together.

-00-

When the two heads of household arrived at Downton the next day, they were still blushing from the previous evening's activities. They could barely look each other in the eye over breakfast without breaking into silly grins. Most of the staff had learned to ignore the Carsons making eyes at each other through the day, but O'Brien stared at them in undisguised disgust.

"Is there something wrong with your porridge, Miss Flintshire?" Elsie asked her, using the formal address befitting a visiting maid. "You used to like Mrs. Patmore's breakfasts."

"No, Mrs. Carson. It's just how I remember it, but you've changed something about the servant's hall and I was trying to figure out what it was."

_The cloud created by you and by Thomas is gone_, Elsie wanted to answer, but she simply said. "We had the walls whitewashed during the Season. It really brightens the room."

-00-

"I'm sorry, Lucy, but those two are just as soppy for each other as a pair of teenagers." Sarah had explained the contents of her letter to Mrs. Butte the night before. Lucille had spent the night dreaming of the terrible fight that must be happening at the Carson Cottage at that very moment. Now that she was faced with almost certain knowledge of what had really transpired in their home, Lucille felt a little sick to her stomach.

"Thank you for trying, Sarah." Lucille smiled sadly. "If you really think my information would help, we can talk about Mr. Barrow and Miss Baxter tonight."

"I look forward to it." O'Brien smiled to herself as she hurried up to prepare Lady Flintshire for her day. If she had seen the smile on Lucille's face, Sarah would not have looked so smug.

Lucille had always intended to pretend to tell Sarah 'everything'. As suspicious as Miss O'Brien was of the circumstances around Barrow's death, she obviously did not suspect Lucille of anything. If Lucille was her confidante, it could help her steer O'Brien's piercing gaze elsewhere. It was a dangerous dance, but Lucille was not afraid of facing the music. Not so long as she was the one calling the tune.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN There, and you were all worried about our Chelsie. Tsk tsk. Shame on you;) **

**As always, reviews are treasured and loved. **


	26. Sarah and Lucille

A fly on the wall of the attic room shared by Miss O'Brien and Mrs. Butte would have seen the two women sharing a bottle of ill-gotten wine late into the night. Said fly might have become dizzy trying to follow the intricate interplay of schemes and suspicions as the two women discussed the bizarre events that had occurred at Grantham House at the end of the Season.

The two women took turns telling the tale as they understood it, with one interrupting the other when some crucial point was neglected.

Lucille sat Indian-style on her own bed as Sarah perched on the edge of hers. It would seem from their postures that Miss O'Brien was the one who desired the information the most. The truth was, Lucille wanted to learn things from Miss O'Brien just as much; she just hid her emotions better. Lucille was impressed by the amount of information Sarah had been able to procure even from her post in India. Being the maid of a first class gossip did have its advantages.

More impressive than her knowledge was O'Brien's power of perception. Having never met Miss Baxter, she seemed to have her personality pegged. When Lucille complimented her, O'Brien just shrugged. "Anna said the woman wouldn't hurt a fly and you say she was fond of Mr. Molesley. That tells me everything I need to know about her. It's her family that intrigues me."

Lucille provided just enough new information to earn O'Brien's respect and trust while giving nothing of value away. It was nearing one in the morning before they reached the end of the story. They both sipped at the last of the wine and thought in silence for a while.

O'Brien spoke first. "So you say Thomas' demeanor changed drastically after the first time the police took him away?"

"I would think that identifying the body of one's dead lover would affect someone, even if they were the killer."

"Don't be daft, Jimmy and Thomas weren't lovers." Sarah said condescendingly.

"Are you sure? They wrote to each other a lot and they were very close." Lucille pretended to try to defend her ludicrous statement. "I am sure Thomas loved him."

"He may have done, but they weren't lovers. I'd bet my life on it."

_That's an odd choice of words,_ Lucille thought. "What does it matter why he was upset?"

"It doesn't. It matters _when_ he was upset. It matters very much." Sarah dropped her voice low and whispered. She contemplated something briefly but then nodded to herself as if reaching a conclusion. It was a choice she would regret, but how could she know the import of that decision? How could she know that she had just committed herself to trusting the very last person deserving of that trust?

"Thomas wrote to me."

"He did?" Lucille leaned forward, feigning ravenous curiosity. This was not news to Lucille. She'd written the letter herself.

"I thought the two of you had a falling out?"

"Yes, he acknowledged that, but he was hoping we could put that behind us, seeing as how Alfred was doing so well. He asked for my help to blackmail the Crawleys. He knew that Lady Flintshire had some information about…" She was still a little wary of trusting too completely.

"About Lady Mary and the Turk?"

Sarah was impressed. "You know about that?"

"I did my research on the family before I took the job at Grantham House. A fellow housekeeper filled me in on the almost scandal." Lucille shrugged as if it was nothing special. "Are you here because of the letter?"

"Yes." Sarah breathed out excitedly.

"Are you going to take it to the police?"

"Not yet. I wanted to hear the full story first."

"You should show the police." Lucille urged. There was nothing in that letter that would do anything but support the police's conclusions.

"It's not that simple. There's more to it than just a letter."

Lucille didn't understand.

"Thomas had not written to me since I left Downton." O'Brien's voice was so quiet and full of tension that Lucille uncrossed her legs and moved to the edge of her bed, though her feet did not reach the floor.

"Yes?" Lucille asked with anticipation. She was not play acting any more.

"And then I get two letters from him in the space of three days?"

"_Two_ letters?" Now here was some information worth knowing. Lucille was glad that O'Brien trusted her enough to tell her, but she understood that there was something else behind this confession besides trust. There was the need for O'Brien to share her secret. This need was the weakness of all gossips; they simply _had_ to tell someone. O'Brien was patient and wily, but she was still, in her heart of hearts, nothing more than a common gossip.

"The first letter was the one asking for my help. Two days later, I received another letter. This one was quite different." O'Brien let the tension rebuild before continuing. She needed to have her gossip properly appreciated. Lucille was a very attentive listener. "He was terrified. He said he thought someone was setting him up to take a fall for the disappearances. He mentioned Sir Richard's death. He wanted out of Grantham House, out of London and out of England. He asked if I knew anyone in India who needed a valet."

Lucille's mind was racing. This could be salvaged, but she had to be careful. "So…you think he wrote the second letter _after_ they found Jimmy?"

"That would seem to make sense, wouldn't it?" O'Brien let the question hang in the air as she stared at Mrs. Butte intently.

"But?" Lucille whispered.

O'Brien looked gratified by Lucille's astute question. "But, the first letter I received was postmarked the day _after_ the second letter!"

_Blast!_ Lucille thought. _So close._ "That doesn't make any sense."

"Of course it does. Just think. In the beginning, the police thought there was someone trying to frame Thomas. Someone using forged letters."

"But that would mean…" Lucille was beginning to recover. So long as O'Brien did not suspect Lucille, this new development could be weathered, maybe even used.

"Either Miss Baxter was the killer, or the killer is still out there."

"But what about Thomas' suicide?"

"I don't think Thomas killed himself. I think it is more likely that it was a murder that was made to look like a suicide."

"Who at Grantham House could be capable of killing anyone? Who could hate Thomas so much to go to all that trouble to kill him?" The killer asked innocently.

"Only one man," O'Brien said with dark conviction. "John Bates."

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN School ends tomorrow and updates will be spotty (or nonexistent) until early next week. In the meantime, enjoy imagining all the possible ways this could go horribly wrong for Miss O'Brien. ;)**


	27. Sarah's Plan

"Mr. Bates?" Mrs. Butte almost laughed out loud. This was delicious!

"And I mean to see him hang for it." O'Brien's face was grim with determination. "I bet he _did_ kill that first wife of his. And to think, I felt guilty about testifying against him."

"But he…"

"Has them all fooled; you too, by the sound of it." Sarah shook her head with disgusted disappointment. "There's something dark about that man. Can't anyone see it? He broods and watches everyone with contempt, and they love him for it."

Her face contorted with hatred. "The only reason he seduced Anna was to make people like him. Once he married her, he could be as creepy as he wanted, but no one questioned his moods because of their love of Anna.

"How was he not a suspect from the first? That's what I'd like to know." O'Brien demanded of no one.

Lucille just shrugged and shook her head. She did not trust herself to speak. Anything she attempted to say would spill out of her accompanied with giggles of glee. _Miss O'Brien suspects Mr. Bates!_ Obviously, there was some deep seeded resentment towards Mr. Bates on O'Brien's part, but that did not concern Lucille. All that mattered was that O'Brien was in England to avenge Thomas! _This should be entertaining. _From what Lucille had heard about Miss O'Brien, the woman knew how to serve up revenge.

To make things even better, O'Brien trusted Lucille. Lucille could appear to help O'Brien while keeping an eye on her. Lucille didn't have anything against Mr. Bates, but if O'Brien ever convinced the police to reexamine Thomas' death or 'crimes', it would be good to have a patsy on hand.

"If you are right, what do you plan to do about it?"

"Oh, I'm right, don't you doubt it." O'Brien promised. "As for what's to be done, I've been thinking of that." She stood up and paced the little space between the beds.

"I've tried to set him up as a thief and he slipped that trap. He's been arrested for murder and escaped that too, thanks to Anna. What he's done now is a hanging offense, but I draw the line at killing someone. Conveniently, I don't have any qualms about driving him mad."

"How would you do that?"

Sarah looked at Lucille, sizing her up once more. Sharing her letters and her suspicions about Mr. Bates was one thing. Telling Lucille about the plan was another. Lucille saw the doubt and decided to soft play her hand.

"No, on second thought, don't tell me. I don't think I want to know." Lucille made a show of climbing under the sheets and turning her back.

"I could use your help to make it work."

"Why should I help you?"

"Because Mr. Bates has gotten away with murder, multiple times. My plan is to drive him into a confession."

Lucille sat back up in bed, but pretended to be reluctantly drawn in. "How?"

O'Brien hurried to her bag and drew out a paper bag. "With these. I've brought them from India. This contains dried cannabis and other preparations of hallucinogens. They can be mixed into teas or any liquid." O'Brien smiled wickedly.

"We can systematically drug Mr. Bates while applying outside pressure."

"What kind of pressure?"

"Notes saying that we know what he did. Leaving little reminders of Mr. Barrow around the place, maybe even in the Bates' cottage. Doing something to bring the police to Downton.

"Just when he is convinced he is going mad, we give him a big dose of this." She held up a green bottle. "This is 'bhang', an extract from the cannabis plant and poppies. It is used in religious ceremonies. If we can dose him with enough, we can confront him and he'll confess everything to us."

"That sounds like it could take some time. Is Lady Flintshire planning to stay that long?"

"She'll stay as long as I want her to." O'Brien said dismissively. "What do you say? Will you help me dispense some justice to a killer?"

An odd smile defused across Lucille's face. _Justice._ O'Brien had hit upon the perfect word. "Yes, Miss O'Brien, I will."

-00-

It was less than three days until the garden party. The house buzzed with activity as all the worker bees went about their work. Even Miss O'Brien seemed to be pulling her weight and keeping her snide remarks to a minimum.

O'Brien knew Mrs. Carson would suspect something if she were too cooperative, but she chose her moments to grumble carefully. Largely, O'Brien hung about the kitchen hoping to be helpful and hopeful to find opportunities to drug Mr. Bates. The doses were low at first and there was almost no effect beyond him being tired and inattentive in the afternoons. O'Brien decided to up the dosage and to get Mrs. Butte to dose him in the mornings in addition to O'Brien's teatime dosage.

The past few days, people had noticed the change in Mr. Bates. He was moody and dark, which was not unusual, but he was also loud and talkative, which was out of character. He became vocally belligerent and his habits became erratic. Some nights he went back to the cottage without waiting for Anna. She came home one night to find him standing on the stoop, in a state of near undress and staring into space. Another night, she'd found him tearing the house apart as though he were looking for something. When she asked him what he sought, he could not tell her and broke down crying.

Once they knew he was rattled, O'Brien and Butte stepped up their campaign of terror. O'Brien began leaving notes where only Mr. Bates would see. They were vague and threatening and in Thomas' handwriting; or the closest O'Brien could come to it. The notes said things like, 'I Know What You Are' or 'I Will Be Avenged'. One day O'Brien was bold enough to sneak into His Lordship's room and write, 'Guilty!' on the mirror in black shoe polish. Bates barely had time to clean it off the mirror before it was time to dress His Lordship for dinner.

The effect was exactly what O'Brien had hoped for. Mr. Bates was shaken to his core. Half the time he did not know if he was coming or going. He began to lose track of time, trying to dress Lord Grantham in his tails in the morning and his shooting jacket for dinner. Finally, Lord Grantham could take no more and called in Dr. Clarkson. The doctor thought he saw signs of drug use, but Mr. Bates swore up and down that he was not taking anything. Clarkson declared the valet was experiencing a breakdown and ordered Bates a week of bed rest.

"But the garden party, milord."

"Will go forward without your assistance." Lord Grantham declared. "It's not as though you were going to serve. I'll have Carson dress me."

"But he already has so much to do."

"Yes, but there aren't any other options. You won't do me any good if you try to dress me in my riding habit. Get some rest, man, and don't give it another thought."

Miss O'Brien literally danced a jig upon hearing the news of Bates' grounding. She had become quite manic in recent days. Only Lucille knew that Mr. Bates was not the only one receiving 'special' tea.

"Perfect! We have him isolated and alone. Now I can make him confess." She held up the bottle of bhang, her eyes wild with excitement.

"During the garden party would be perfect." Lucille recommended.

"Yes. I'll have almost the entire day to drive him over the edge. I've perfected my 'Thomas walk'. If I pass by the window a few times dressed in livery after we administer the bhang, he will think he is seeing Thomas' shadow which is sure to unnerve him into a confession.

"What good is a confession if you are the only witness?"

"That's why I need you to help me and be my witness. We're so close. You've helped so much so far. Will you help me finish this?"

"I'll be by your side to the bitter end, Miss O'Brien." Lucille promised and on some level, she meant it.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Next up, the garden party and at least one death.**


	28. The Garden Party

**WARNING: This chapter includes a Character Death. It is not too graphic.**

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><p>It was the day before the garden party. Upstairs, Lady Rose was crying and Lady Mary was fuming. Rose's suitors and their families arrived on the afternoon train. Susan had been rude and condescending to them each in turn. She had also said some vile things to her daughter after driving her beaus to their rooms.<p>

"There is nothing improper in having options, Mama. It does not make me what you just called me. Mary has three suitors."

"Do not model your behavior on Mary. We both know her past. I raised you to have more self-respect than that."

"You just can't stand to see me happy." Rose accused through angry tears. "You want the whole world to be as miserable as you are."

"You're just an ungrateful, spoiled Daddy's girl who lacks the good sense God gave a goose."

Rose threw up her hands and ran out of the drawing room crying.

As far as Lady Grantham was concerned, Lady Flintshire had officially outstayed her welcome.

-00-

Downstairs, Madge was crying. Miss O'Brien had just given the girl a spirited lecture about not poaching other servant's jobs. The mismatched pair stood toe to toe in the servant's hall, a spectacle for everyone to watch.

"But sh..she couldn't find you. She _asked_ me to fix her hair." Madge sobbed. "I couldn't say no."

"You bloody well could have and you should have." O'Brien scolded. "If I catch you anywhere near My Lady again, you will have hell to pay."

A visible shiver racked poor Madge's body as she turned to run up the stairs. At least she had found the safety of her room before bursting into tears.

As far as Mrs. Carson was concerned, Sarah O'Brien had officially outstayed her welcome.

-00-

"That little gutter snipe." O'Brien cursed in the privacy of her shared room. She had been shocked and hurt to hear that Lady Flintshire had asked for Madge's help with her hair. Yes, it was true that O'Brien was nowhere to be found at that time. She had been trying to devise a way to drug Mr. Bates in his cottage. Her obsession with Mr. Bates' guilt was affecting her work.

"She asked me too." Lucille lied. "But I refused."

"Thank you for that. It is good to know that I have a friend." Sarah sighed with genuine gratitude. It had been so long since she had an ally. "Let's forget that silly girl and focus on Mr. Bates."

-00-

The day of the party finally arrived. The weather was clear. The food was delicious. The champagne was flowing. Everyone was enjoying the joys of an idyllic Yorkshire summer day; almost everyone.

John Bates was pacing his sitting room. He'd been ordered to remain in bed, but he could not obey. Anna had gone to the big house early to help prepare Lady Mary,d Lady Edith and Lady Rose for the day. Madge had fallen violently ill the night before and was not fit for work.

John was struggling to remember the events of the past week. He felt like a haze was lifting from his brain. In his dark years of drinking binges and violent rages there had been whole days he could not recall. This was not entirely like that, but it was not entirely unlike it either.

He did not want to alarm Anna, but the ghost of those times frightened him. Those were not experiences he wished to relive. He'd come back from Africa a changed man. He drank to forget the pain in his knee and to drive the nightmares away. Unfortunately for Vera, before the drinking made him numb and forgetful, it made him violent. Though she tried his patience when he was sober as well. The truth was that serving time for Vera's theft had probably saved his life and hers. Inside prison, he had sobered up and found ways to confront the terrible anger he was carrying.

Dr. Clarkson had kindly given John the benefit of the doubt when he swore he had not been taking anything illicit. John had seen the skeptical look in the doctor's eyes as he simply said, "Forgive me for asking, but all the signs are there, Mr. Bates. If you need help, you only need ask."

Dr. Clarkson knew the stress John was under. He and Anna had gone to Clarkson after returning to Downton to tell him of their hope to conceive a child and to discuss the advice of the London doctor. Did the good doctor think that John had snapped from the pressure?

John was starting to believe that he had snapped. He wondered what had pushed him over the edge. If knowing what that monster Green had done to his Anna hadn't driven John mad, then what could? Was that failure still at the base of his anxieties over not giving Anna the child she craved. He would never be worthy of her, his mind reminded him cruelly.

He turned to start another circuit of the room and his eyes fell on a glint of brown liquid. The bottle of Scotch had been given to them by a well-meaning new neighbor as a house warming. They kept it for guests, but had only opened it once. The bottle was almost full.

He knew it was wrong, but he needed to make the confusion and the pain stop. John would never have taken a sip if he knew there was any chance of hurting anyone. He had plenty of time to reach the point of forgetting before Anna returned home. The violence only occurred if someone provoked him. Everyone was too busy today to bother with him, he told himself as he reached for the bottle.

-00-

Lady Rose MacClare was trying to hide from her mother. This was made more difficult by the entourage that insisted on following her anywhere. To think she had actually been happy to learn that her mother was coming for the party. She had decided to accept the attentions of whatever gentleman her mother hated the most. It was as good a reason as any to marry someone, Rose reasoned.

Instead, her mother had hated them all equally and she made no secret of the fact. Wherever Rose went, misery, in the nagging form of her mother, followed. Edith tried to help by engaging the horrid woman in small talk, but then Susan had started saying horrible things about Mr. Gregson. Edith gave Rose a sympathetic look, but was forced to retreat.

Cora tried to smooth things over graciously, but Susan was determined to punish everyone for the beautiful day. Finally, Mary had enough. She took her cousin forcefully by the arm and steered her away behind the serving tent.

"You ought to return to the house, Lady Flintshire, I believe you've taken too much sun." Mary said through tight lips and gritted teeth.

"If I have, it's because your mother did not order enough tents for the number of guests."

"We have plenty of tents for the guests we_ invited._" Mary said pointedly.

"Are you saying that I am unwelcome?"

"Do you feel unwelcome?"

"To be honest, yes, I do." Susan returned indignantly.

"Good. There's your answer." Mary told the shocked woman. "You have been horrible to everyone since your arrival. Let me be clear, you have only been tolerated this long out of respect for Grandmama and Rose. If you cannot muster the grace to be kind to your own daughter, you are not welcome here. Please return to the house. Food will be provided for you there."

Mary continued to glare at the smaller woman. "Then, I suggest you shall pack your things and move to the Dower House tonight, Lady Flintshire."

"I can't believe I'm being turned out of Downton by the likes of you. I know your past, Mary Crawley, and I do not deserve to be addressed so rudely by a hussy like you."

Mary considered slapping her cousin, but managed to control her temper. Her voice was low with white hot rage. "This is my home, Lady Flintshire, and you will respect me in my home. Whatever you choose to do elsewhere is no matter to me. In fact, the sooner you take yourself elsewhere, the better, I think."

She then turned and left the red-faced, blustering woman and returned to the other guests. Susan heard a small smattering of applause as Mary reached them.

-00-

Mary had enjoyed the congratulations and accolades for a while, but her mood had been soured by the run in with Lady Flintshire. Soon, she wandered off to be by herself. Elsie watched the young woman leave the party and noted the direction. She would tell Charles when he returned to the party. Mr. Carson had taken advantage of a lull in the party to run down to the Bates' cottage and check in on Mr. Bates to set Anna's mind at ease. Anna was worried about him, but she was too busy helping serve while also attending Lady Mary, Lady Edith and Lady Rose in Madge's absence.

After a while, Elsie saw Charles striding confidently across the lawn towards the tents. His eyes scanned the crowd quickly and found her. A relieved smile suffused his face when he saw her.

He came to stand next to her. She smiled, knowing exactly the words he was about to say.

"Well done, Mrs. Carson. Beautifully executed, as always." He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet in satisfaction.

"The key is in the planning." She returned, following their usual script.

He chuckled deeply but frowned as Anna hurried up to them.

"How was he?" Elsie saw something strange pass over Charles' face before he smiled solemnly.

"He's sleeping." Mr. Carson assured the worried wife. He was not about to include the details of what he'd found at the Bates' cottage. Not here.

Happy to hear a satisfactory report, Anna rushed off to help Daisy with the next round of canapés.

"What aren't you telling her?" Elsie asked gently.

"Nothing. The man is sleeping." Charles answered, his eyes scanning the party with a professional efficiency.

"Have it your way." Elsie rolled her eyes. He wasn't lying, but there was something he was leaving out. She'd have the full story eventually. "You ought to go search out Lady Mary. Guests will be leaving soon and she should see them off."

"Where is she?" Charles looked around, as if she were hiding behind a tent pole.

"She gave Lady Flintshire her walking papers and needed to cool down. I think she headed towards the garden."

"Are we rid of that horrible woman, then?"

"Do you mean Lady Flintshire or Miss O'Brien?" Elsie teased.

"Two halves of a bad penny." Charles muttered as he headed off towards the main garden.

-00-

Elsie didn't see Charles again until the party was almost over. Lady Rose's suitors had all decided to head back to London on the train, driven away by the reception they'd received from her mother. The exhausted family headed back into their home as the last of the guests departed. Downton would be quiet tonight. Even the children were tired from the few hours they'd been paraded around the party for general approval.

Leaving the tents for the outside staff, the downstairs staff carried the last of the silver back to the Abbey and were rewarded with an early night off.

"That was an event to remember, and no mistake." Elsie exclaimed as she and Charles walked out the back door with Anna. Charles had insisted that they walk Anna home, though he would still not say why.

The long summer day was finally giving up the last of its light. The sky was pink and the horizon glowed red around the departing sun.

"Let's walk through the garden." Elsie suggested. It was something she and Charles did every night, but the garden was not exactly on the way to the Bates' cottage.

"That's out of the way, love." Charles reminded her.

"But it's such a lovely evening. What do you say, Anna? Would you join us for a little stroll?"

"That does sound lovely." Anna agreed. "If Mr. Bates is sleeping, I'd like to let him sleep a little longer before I wake him."

"Very well," Charles sighed. He was exhausted and a stroll through the garden was not exactly what he wanted. A hot bath and then a cuddle with his wife had been his agenda. Or, better yet, a hot bath with his wife.

The three servants entered the garden through the West gate and followed the path that meandered through the topiaries.

Suddenly, Elsie stopped in midstep. "Charles! Look!"

He looked where she was pointing and saw a pair of women's shoes lying on the grass. But the shoes were not empty; they were being worn by someone lying down. The body attached to the feet in the shoes was obscured by a topiary hedge.

"Stay here." Charles ordered the two shocked women. He hurried around the hedge and gaped at what he found.

"Lady Flintshire?" He called as he fell to his knees beside the body. Elsie and Anna rushed around the hedge and gasped. She was face down, but there was no mistaking that mean little body and the clothing belonged to Susan MacClare. Charles rolled her over and they all simultaneously looked away in disgust. Lady Flintshire's eyes were wide open and her tongue and lips were blue. Elsie immediately thought of how Thomas had looked when she'd found him. There was no mistaking how Lady Flintshire had died, even if there had not been a stocking wrapped around her neck.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Are we sure that Mrs. Butte committed this murder? We'll find out next chapter...**

**Thank you to the dedicated few who are following this story. **

**P.S. I do love reviews and comments. **


	29. What Happened in the Garden

**AN/ This chapter has a vivid (and potentially disturbing) description of Lady Flintshire's death. Those with aversions to that sort of thing will want to stop reading after the break. I'll give a small update at the beginning of the next chapter so you won't miss anything important to the plot.**

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><p>Sarah O'Brien's day had gone from bad to worse. In retrospect, she wished that she had just stayed in bed. She'd woken up the morning of the garden party with very specific plans, none of which materialized. For starters, that little slip of a maid had become sick and Mrs. Butte's duties had multiplied instantly. Lucille was now needed to help serve and to assist Anna with Lady Edith and Lady Rose. So, Sarah had lost her ally in the day's agenda.<p>

Then, Lady Flintshire had woken up in a fine state of mind. Her insecurities were wearing her down. Seeing how easily Rose interacted with Cora hurt Susan deeply. She loved her daughter, but somewhere along the line had forgotten how to show it. Rose had become the bone of contention that Susan could use to tease her husband. Susan told herself that she was the blameless victim in this scenario. She told herself this so often that she came to believe it.

After enduring a deluge of derogatory comments, O'Brien finally set Lady Flintshire's hair to Her Ladyship's satisfaction and had been released for the remainder of the day. O'Brien's first order of business was to get the bhang into the lunch that she would then deliver to Mr. Bates. Originally, Sarah had planned to send Lucille with the food, knowing Mr. Bates would be suspicious of any kindness from herself. That plan was now impossible. The only people in the house with no duties were the maids and valets of Lady Rose's guests. O'Brien could not trust any of them to be discreet.

Another flaw in the plan was one of which O'Brien was unaware. The bottle of bhang that she was carrying in her pocket no longer contained bhang. It contained green olive oil infused with rosemary. Lucille had long since stolen the original liquid. Lucille had other plans for the cannabis-poppy concoction.

Today, the switch of liquids did not matter. There was no one to witness Mr. Bates' breakdown, so this was not the time to administer the stronger hallucinogen. Around tea time, O'Brien had decided to be bold. In a rare moment when all the kitchen staff were out, she'd made a tray of food and slipped out the servant's entrance. O'Brien headed quickly towards the Bates' cottage. She bristled with anger as she remembered the only time she had been invited to their cottage. It had been a set up to threaten her into letting James give Thomas a good reference. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the tray tightly.

The approach to the cottage was open and visible from far off. This did not suit O'Brien. She did not want to be observed on her mission. She skirted behind another row of cottages which were currently unoccupied. Just before she broke her cover to approach the front door, she cursed. Mr. Carson was coming up the walk towards her. He had not seen her, but it had been a near thing.

Sarah moved closed to the cottage after Mr. Carson had entered. His knock had gone unanswered, but he had pushed in, nonetheless. Not long after he'd disappeared into the home, Sarah heard raised voices and sounds of a scuffle. It died down quickly and she waited in eerie silence. Finally, Carson emerged from the house. He was carrying a near empty bottle of something that looked like whiskey. Carson headed for the main house, unaware that he was being watched.

O'Brien waited a few minutes before she approached the door and knocked. There was no answer. Like Carson, she pushed her way in. The door was unlocked.

"Mr. Bates?" She called to the silent house. Looking around, she saw no sign of anything out of place. Perhaps it had not been a scuffle she had heard. Perhaps Mr. Carson had merely helped Mr. Bates up to his room.

O'Brien decided to head up to the bedroom. It had been too long since his last dose and she could not risk Mr. Bates recovering his wits. What she found in the bedroom set her mind at ease. An obviously drunk Mr. Bates was sprawled across his bed, snoring. She was glad to see the fruits of her labors. They were getting to him. Unfortunately, there was no hope of extracting a confession from him in this state.

O'Brien left him there and returned to the kitchen of the cottage. She quickly made a small pot of special tea. She poured out a cup. She ran the cup up to the bedroom and set it beside the bed. Hopefully, he would drink it without question when he awoke. It was the best she could do today.

Before she left, something on the dresser caught her eye. It was a pair of beautiful silk stockings. For some unknown reason, O'Brien felt the urge to nick them. The only silk stockings she ever handled belonged to the women she served. The idea that Anna would have something so delicate and expensive angered Sarah. Why was it that Anna had been given so much? O'Brien never considered all that Anna had also suffered in her life.

Whether it was the remnants of special tea in her system or just her true nature, O'Brien took the stockings and secreted them into her pocket before leaving.

O'Brien had returned to the house and taken the tray to her own room where she ate most of the food before bringing it back to the kitchen. To anyone observing her, she'd simply preferred to take her luncheon alone in her room.

O'Brien was unloading the tray when Lucille rushed in.

"There you are!"

"What do you mean?"

"People have been looking for you."

"What people?"

"Your mistress, mainly, and then me."

"What does _she_ want?"

"I imagine she wants you to pack her things. Lady Mary has asked her to leave Downton tonight."

"I should have expected this." Sarah growled. "She couldn't play nice, could she? She just had to judge and goad everyone. I can't leave yet. My mission isn't accomplished."

"It will be difficult for you to find a reason to stay if your Lady leaves." Lucille sounded sympathetic. She wasn't going to be sorry to see O'Brien leave. It was making her rather uncomfortable to watch Mr. Bates unraveling. He was not nearly as entertaining as Thomas had been. Perhaps O'Brien had overstayed her welcome. Lucille decided to let fate decide.

Lucille moved to the stove and poured a cup of tea for herself. "Would you care for a cuppa before you face the whirlwind?"

"I think I would."

Lucille smiled to herself. There was her answer. Taking down another cup, Lucille poured a heavy helping of bhang into the cup before topping it off with tea. She handed the laced beverage to Miss O'Brien and followed her into the servant's hall.

O'Brien drank quickly and did not notice the bitter and oily taste of the tea as she sat in deep contemplation. "You'll have to do it." She finally said.

"What?" Lucille asked.

"You'll have to finish my mission." O'Brien said, fixing Mrs. Butte with a serious gaze.

"I've helped all that I can. If I do any more, I'm bound to be caught." Lucille protested. She looked back into Sarah's eyes. She saw the pupils dilated and she understood that the bhang was already having some effect on the Irishwoman. She noticed that O'Brien had finished her tea. "You should probably go find Lady Flintshire now."

"Yes." O'Brien agreed absently.

"Maybe you could talk her into apologizing and you could stay on." Lucille knew such a suggestion would not be accepted graciously. She was rather intrigued to see what would transpire.

"Yes." O'Brien nodded vigorously. The bhang was obviously taking hold now. "Yes! That's what I'll do. I'll tell the bitter little bitch that she should apologize."

"Let's go find her." Lucille prompted, practically salivating at the prospect of a fight.

-00-

**Weak Hearts- Stop Here**

They found Lady Flintshire in the garden, pacing angrily and muttering to herself. Mrs. Butte hung back, not wanting to be caught in the gathering storm.

"Oh! You've finally decided to show your face, have you? It's not as though I pay you or anything! You're as ungrateful as the rest of them!" Susan was red faced and screaming. "You've seen the Taj Mahal for crying out loud. How many stinking Irish do you think can say that?"

"Not many, My Lady." O'Brien whispered dangerously.

"And how am I repaid? Just when I need you, you abandon me just like everyone else. Typical of you low born, dirty potato-eating rabble! Why did I expect any better? And now my own cousins have kicked me out of their house! If we still lived at Duneagle…"

"Well you don't." O'Brien interrupted coldly. "Perhaps Your Ladyship would not find herself thrown out of Downton if you acted like a gracious guest instead of a pompous, overbearing bitch."

Susan looked as though she had been slapped.

"Every problem in your life is your own doing, you self-centered, short-sighted bint!" Sarah was getting up a head of steam now. "I bet Rose never missed you for one second. I bet she wishes you were stuck in Hong Kong. If I had a mother like you, India would be too bloody close for my liking."

Lady Flintshire began to cry and Lucille recognized the mistake immediately. One does not show such weakness when confronted by a predator. O'Brien bared her teeth as she stalked towards her prey.

"You wouldn't understand what it is to be a mother." Susan blubbered. "You're just an old maid. Good luck finding another position. You'll get no reference from me. You are dismissed, you bitter, barren slag."

"I won't need any bloody reference from the likes of you." O'Brien snarled as she stuck her hand into her pocket and pulled out the silk stockings.

Lucille watched all of this unfold in rapt fascination. O'Brien had come unhinged. For one fleeting second, Lucille considered stopping the mad Irishwoman from her intended action, but Lucille reminded herself that she'd given up free will long ago. This was Fate. This was Providence.

Lucille's heart raced with sympathetic adrenaline as she saw O'Brien move to wrap one of the stockings around Lady Flintshire's neck. The other stocking fell to the ground as the smaller woman turned to flee. O'Brien tripped her easily and leaned over the prone woman. O'Brien moved with a slow and deliberate grace that Lucille found achingly beautiful. She wondered vaguely if she looked that beautiful when she killed. From her mother's stories and penny novels, Lucille had always imagined that murder was ugly, but she was gaining a new perspective tonight in the garden. Lucille felt like an apprentice learning from a master.

With one knee pressed to Susan's back for leverage, O'Brien tightened the stocking, pulling her victim's head backwards. Susan was facing downward on the grass, her head back and her back arched in an oddly sexual position. One could almost imagine her convulsions as ecstasies rather than her last, desperate moments of life.

When Lady Flintshire stopped twitching Lucille saw O'Brien's body sag. The murderess looked down on her victim with wild and questioning eyes. She released the ends of the stocking and watched as the body flopped like a rag doll upon the grass. O'Brien looked around her, terrified and confused. _This isn't real_, her mind told her. _You've imagined strangling her a thousand times, this was just another of those times. This isn't real._

O'Brien's eyes met Mrs. Butte's own wide eyes. Sarah was oddly comforted by what she saw. She saw sympathy, yes, but she also saw awe and respect. There was nothing to fear from her friend.

"It's alright, Sarah." Lucille said quietly. She approached carefully, picking up the stray stocking, but never taking her eyes from Sarah's. "Come back to the house. I'll look after you."

TBC…

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><p><strong> AN Okay, I REALLY did not expect that, but it just felt right. Technically, O'Brien was already a killer.**

**Thoughts?**


	30. What Am I Going To Do?

**AN/ For any who skipped the end of the last chapter, a drugged up O'Brien killed Lady Flintshire in the garden with the silk stocking while Lucille watched. **

**FYI, I did not make it clear that Lucille has been drugging O'Brien with a dosage of special tea for some time. It isn't the same dosage as Bates is getting (he's being drugged a full dosage by O'Brien and a half dosage by Lucille. Lucille is giving O'Brien the other half of the dosage she has been given). That's all in my head and I forgot to put it in writing.  
><strong>

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><p><em>'You'd think that murder would be taken more seriously,'<em> Carson thought as the policeman on the phone informed him that the detective team would be by first thing in the morning. "So we just wait?"

"Not much we can do tonight." The constable drawled.

"Oh, of course, well that makes me feel better." Charles answered sarcastically. "Shall I inform the murderer to refrain from killing anyone else until you arrive?"

"Have you caught him?" The confused man asked. He'd been dozing at his desk when the call came in from the Abbey.

"No, we haven't caught anyone, Constable, that's the point! A Lady has been murdered and you act as though I were reporting a lost dog! What about evidence? What about the guests who have already returned to London?"

"Cover the body with a sheet and have a guest list and a list of all the servants ready for the detective when he arrives." The policeman said in what he hoped was a helpful tone.

"Flaming idiot." Carson cursed as he hung up the phone. "You there, please fetch me a spare sheet." He called into the hallway just as Madge bustled past. She was feeling much better than she had a few hours ago, but she felt suddenly worse at this request. She remembered the last time she was asked to find old, spare sheets. Madge ran to the kitchen sink and vomited.

"Oh, for the love of…" Carson rolled his eyes. Why was the world going to hell around him? He had no time to fetch the sheet himself. Elsie had escorted Anna home while Carson had run to the house. He'd sent Mr. Molesley out to the garden to watch over the body. Carson had called the police immediately. He still needed to go upstairs and inform His Lordship. The downstairs was already buzzing with rumors of a body in the garden. "Ah. Mrs. Butte, might I bother you to fetch me an old sheet from the attics?"

"Of course, Mr. Carson. Are the rumors true?"

"I'll tell everyone what there is to tell at the same time. Mrs. Patmore is gathering the staff. Just place the sheet by the back door for me, if you please." Carson started to head up the stairs, but thought again. "Mrs. Butte?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson?"

"Have you seen Miss O'Brien?"

"She is up in our room. She has been out searching for Lady Flintshire. She heard the rumors when she returned and I think she fears the worst."

Carson decided that he could trust Mrs. Butte. "Unfortunately, she is correct. Send another maid for the sheet and then please go and be with Miss O'Brien. I'll send Mrs. Carson up to check on you both after we've told the rest of the staff. It may be a while. I need to tell the family first."

"I understand, Mr. Carson."

-00-

Carson had been forced to recount everything three times before the family released him to go back downstairs. When he left, Lady Rose was being rocked gently by Lady Cora. Lady Edith was visibly shocked, but Lady Mary seemed oddly unmoved by the entire situation. Anyone who didn't know her would think her cold and indifferent. Carson, who knew her better than most, wasn't sure what to make of her demeanor.

He returned downstairs to find everyone except for Anna, Mr. Bates, Mrs. Butte, Miss O'Brien and Mr. Molesley waiting for him. A pale Madge stood beside Elsie. Nellie stood with Daisy. The assistant cook had her arm protectively around the taller maid.

After confirming the rumors and filling in the few details that he could, Mr. Carson set a rotation for watching the body. Two hall boys or footmen would be present at all times. It would never do to have someone fall asleep out there and let someone or something disturb the body. Carson wanted to move Lady Flintshire inside, but the police had forbidden it.

Finally, Charles and Elsie found their way home. They spoke not at all on the way home, walking around the garden rather than through it. They washed and dressed for bed in silence. Elsie did not comment on the scratches she saw on Charles' neck as he washed. It was not until they were both lying in bed that Elsie broke the silence.

"Are you going to tell me about you and Mr. Bates?" She lay close to him, his arm wrapped around her.

"There's nothing to tell."

"Charles." She only needed one long syllable to defeat him.

"He'd been drinking. He was talking nonsense and he attacked me when I tried to take the Scotch away."

"That's where you got the scratches?"

"I didn't realize I had been scratched until just now, but, yes."

"You got him to bed eventually, though."

"Yes. I was hoping he'd have time to sleep it off before Anna came home."

"Mr. Bates was still sleeping when I took Anna home."

"Good. The poor man needed it."

"Anna noticed that the cottage had been straightened up. She noticed the missing bottle as well."

"Did you stay with her until she woke him?"

"I offered to, but she asked me to leave."

"But…"

"I waited outside to be sure she was safe." Elsie assured him. "I couldn't understand the words, but I heard both of their voices. His was calm, though he sounded very remorseful. I left it at that."

They lay silently for a while. There seemed nothing more to say on that subject.

"Did you find Lady Mary when you were looking for her?" Elsie asked just as he was starting to nod off.

"What? No. I found out later that she went up to the nursery." He answered sleepily.

"Good. That's good."

"Why does it matter?"

"Did you see the marking on the stocking?"

"What?"

"The stocking, Charles. Did you happen to notice the brand of stocking?"

"What stocking?"

"The one wrapped around Lady Flintshire's neck." She reminded him gently.

"Oh, that. No. I didn't know you could tell one stocking from another."

"Men." Elsie sighed. "Of course you can."

"What of it?"

"In this house, that brand is only worn by Lady Mary."

Charles sat up, flicked on the lamp and looked at Elsie in shock. "You cannot be suggesting…"

"I'm not suggesting anything, but the police will notice."

"I'm not so sure," Charles grumped. He had not developed much respect for the police of late. He turned off the light, lay back down and put his arm back around her.

"She couldn't have done it." He said into the darkness.

"Of course not, but it would be helpful if you had found her."

"Helpful to whom?"

"To both of you."

"What are you saying, love?"

"Charles, everyone knows that you'd do anything to protect the family…" She left the comment open.

"You don't honestly think I would kill for them?" His grip on her loosened. Did she really believe him capable of that?

She shook her head. "Things are just so confusing right now; I don't know what to think. I thought all the doubts about the events in London were behind us, but this changes everything. What if the killer is still with us? Nothing makes sense."

"That's why we have each other; to trust in when the rest of the world doesn't make sense." Charles said softly. She hugged herself closer to him.

"I'm frightened, Charles."

"Me too."

-00-

The effects of the bhang were wearing off slowly. Lucille had hidden O'Brien in the bathroom and managed to deflect Mrs. Carson when she came up to check on the distraught maid. Now, they sat on Lucille's bed.

Lucille brushed O'Brien's hair in long, soothing strokes. She whispered comforting words. Sarah cried and asked for help and forgiveness. Lucille promised both.

"I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. It's not who I am. It's not who I am." She kept repeating these two phrases.

"Of course you didn't mean it." Lucille agreed.

"That poor baby." Sarah moaned.

"What baby?"

"Lady Grantham's baby. The little boy. I…I didn't mean it. It's not who I am."

Lucille had never heard of Lady Grantham giving birth to a son. That sort of thing would not have gone unnoticed. She filed the question away to be pursued at a later date. The main concern now was what Sarah would do when she returned to her senses. Would she want to confess or would she try to get away with it? Lucille considered how either of those choices would affect her.

Keeping O'Brien around would be risky, but Lucille was still trying to understand what Providence was trying to teach her. Sarah O'Brien had already opened Lucille's eyes to the dark beauty of her calling. Was there something more she was meant to teach?

Lucille knew one thing for certain. O'Brien must never confess to the police. Mrs. Butte's name was sure to come up. That would never do.

-00-

After less than three hours of sleep, the Carsons awoke and prepared for what they knew would be a trying day.

"I've been thinking, Charles."

"Yes, love?"

"Anna told me last week that Lady Mary gave her a pair of stockings for her birthday."

"Anna is no more a murderer than Lady Mary," Charles scoffed.

"But Mr. Bates would have had access to those stockings."

"You suspect Mr. Bates now? When did you become so paranoid?"

"When people around me started dying at an unusual rate." Elsie answered curtly. "If this is the same person responsible for the deaths in London, who else could it be? Mr. Molesley? Mrs. Butte? Daisy?"

"Now I know you must be joking." Charles tried to laugh off her concerns. When she would not back down, he reminded her, "Mr. Bates was sleeping when I left him and he was sleeping when you and Anna returned."

"How do we know he was sleeping the whole time?"

"Are you suggesting that he woke up, thought he'd take a stroll with a pair of stockings in his pocket, bumped into Lady Flintshire and decided to kill her?" He raised his eyebrows to show exactly how unlikely he thought this chain of events. "Why? He has no reason to kill her."

"If he was drunk, who can say why he went out with the stockings in his pocket, but I'm sure Lady Flintshire is more than capable of giving him a reason to kill her. She had the ability to bring out the violent tendencies in just about everyone."

"Elsie, think what you are saying." Charles cautioned slowly.

"We agreed that we would not allow Anna to be alone with Mr. Bates if we ever truly suspected him." Elsie reminded him.

"Are you certain he is guilty?"

"I am not certain, but I would feel safer if she were not alone with him. I think we should move back into the house and have them do likewise until this is all sorted."

"You want to move back into the house?"

"I don't want to, love, but I think we must."

"Into our old rooms?"

"Yes."

"You mean sleep apart?" He looked hurt by the suggestion.

"We have to look after our staff, Charles. If we move back to the house, it won't be so strange to ask Anna and Mr. Bates to do the same. I don't want to leave her with him until we know."

"Are you sure it isn't that you don't want to be alone with me until we know?" The doubts raised last night returned.

"Did you kill her?" Elsie asked plainly.

"Of course not!" He looked hurt and terrified.

Elsie smiled and gently touched his face. "I know and I am not afraid of you, love. I hope it is not Mr. Bates, but we have to be careful. The problem is, if it isn't Mr. Bates, then there is someone else amongst us capable of these terrible things."

"You are assuming that the person who committed this crime is the same person who committed the London murders. What if it's not? I've been thinking about it and my money is on O'Brien."

"Do you really think O'Brien would murder her way out of a job?"

"I think she is a vicious, spiteful woman and I would not put anything past her."

"I hope it is that simple, Charles, I truly do."

-00-

"What am I going to do?"

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to run away."

"That is the last thing you should do."

"I want to die."

"That isn't your choice."

"What do you mean?"

"Life and death. It isn't our choice."

"I made it my choice last night."

"Was that really your choice?"

"Huh?"

"Did you set out to kill that terrible woman?"

"No."

"You were just an instrument, Sarah."

"What?"

"We're all just instruments."

"You're mad."

"Am I?"

"You sound mad."

"I'm not the one who strangled a woman to death with stockings."

"I'm going to hang."

"I'll be disappointed if you let that happen."

"Why?"

"I thought you came to England on a mission."

"I wanted to trap a murderer but I became one."

"Maybe that's what you had to become to accomplish your mission."

"What do you mean?"

"She was going to take you away from Downton."

"Yes."

"Now you can stay."

"How?"

"Lady Rose will take you on out of guilt."

"Then what?"

"If we can't get Mr. Bates to confess to his own crimes, we can see him hang for yours."

"You really are mad."

Silence filled the darkness of their room.

"Lucille?"

"What?"

"Will you help me?"

"Are you willing to do what it takes to bring him to justice?"

"Yes."

"Then I will help you."

TBC...

* * *

><p><strong>AN This is going to get more convoluted before it makes any sense. Thanks for sticking with me.**


	31. The Investigation Begins

The police arrived before breakfast, which Carson admitted was better than he had expected.

Outside, the crime scene was photographed and catalogued. Lady Flintshire's body was finally removed to the hospital for examination.

Upstairs, the detective questioned the family and senior staff.

Downstairs, Mrs. Patmore fed any police who were not immediately engaged in the investigation.

By the afternoon, it was clear that Detective Alexander had narrowed his area of interest considerably. Two of his main suspects were not surprised to find themselves under scrutiny. Mr. Bates and Miss O'Brien had been resigned to receiving special attention and answered the detective's questions as calmly as they could. Mr. Bates answered with absolute honesty. Miss O'Brien told the story she and Lucille had decided upon.

The detective's two other persons of interest were not as gracious as the first two.

"How dare you!" Lady Mary exploded.

"I'm only saying, miss, that you were the last to see her alive."

"Me and the entire party."

"The entire party was not seen arguing with her."

"Are you so sure of that?" Mary said sarcastically. "And you may address me as My Lady, Lady Mary or Mrs. Crawley." She reminded him haughtily.

Earlier, it had been Mr. Carson's turn to be indignant.

"What do you mean, can I account for my whereabouts throughout the day?"

"It's only that no one remembers seeing you much after Lady Flintshire left."

"Detective, I am the butler here; it is my job to be everywhere and not be seen. If people notice me then I am not doing my job properly." Carson said, puffing out his chest. "I assure you, I did not see anything of Lady Flintshire after she left the party."

"Did you witness the disagreement between Lady Mary and Land Flintshire?"

"No. I was seeing to matters of the house." There was no need to mention Mr. Bates' condition.

"And after that?"

"I returned to the tents."

"And did you stay there?"

"No."

"Where did you go?"

"I was seeing to matters of the house." Carson repeated stubbornly. He was not about to say he'd gone off in search of Lady Mary. "I did not see Lady Flintshire."

"Do you have something to hide, Mr. Carson?" The detective studied the stoic butler. The policeman knew that such a cool exterior could conceal a cold blooded killer, though his instincts did not peg the butler as the killer. _Too cliché._

"I do not engage in criminal activity, Detective. Beyond that, I have nothing to say. I regret that I did not see anything that may be of any use to you."

"As am I, Mr. Carson."

-00-

"You were right, love. They suspect me." The hour was late. They were at his desk. Elsie perched on his lap as she stroked his solemn face.

"And Mr. Bates and Miss O'Brien and Lady Mary." She reminded him. "Have you been cooperating with the police?"

"I won't point the finger at someone else to save my own skin." Charles insisted. "There is no need. They can't prove that I did something that I didn't do."

"I wish I shared your faith, love." Elsie sighed. "After the business with Mr. Bates…"

"Exactly. They've been through enough. Let the police do their work without my help. They'll catch the real killer. It had to be Miss O'Brien. I can't believe it of anyone else."

Elsie nodded. "She's a smart one. We have to keep an eye out for that second stocking."

"What do you mean?"

"Charles, stockings come in pairs. There was only one with the body."

Now he understood. "You think she'll try to plant it on someone? Maybe we should search her room now, before she gets the chance?"

"She may have already planted it. How do we justify searching her room and no one else's?"

"We could ask Mrs. Butte to search for us." He suggested.

"I still don't trust Mrs. Butte. Not with something this delicate." Elsie sighed. "We shall just have to be vigilant."

"Tomorrow, we'll be vigilant. But tonight…" Charles pulled her closer to him. "Let's stay down here tonight. I don't want to go to upstairs."

"You can't sleep in your chair with me on your lap."

"We won't know unless we try."

"_I_ do know, Charles."

"I could sleep on a bed of nails if you were with me."

She laughed at this odd picture. Her dear husband did like his hyperbole. "We haven't got a bed of nails; we have two perfectly serviceable mattresses upstairs. We slept in those beds for over twenty years. Are they suddenly unacceptable?"

"Yes. We are married now and those beds are separated by a wall." He pouted.

"How did you ever survive your time in London without me?"

"It was a torture. More so than usual."

Elsie looked deep into her husband's eyes. She rested her elbows on his shoulders and teased his hair with her fingertips, petting him gently. "I will miss you tonight, my love, but we don't have to rush upstairs."

"Does this mean, Mrs. Carson, that you have some time you might spare for me?" Charles relaxed under her caress.

"I might be able to spare a few moments, Mr. Carson." She rested her forehead on his brow; her nose leaning lightly against his nose. "But only a very few."

"Then we must make the most of them." Charles raised his chin to bring their lips together. He hummed with satisfaction as she sucked gently on his upper lip. Soon they were lost in each other. The worries of today and of tomorrow were temporarily forgotten.

-00-

"I'm sorry to impose, Mr. Molesley." Mr. Bates apologized again. As much as he hated to be away from Anna for the night, John felt a measure of relief. He knew that Anna was safe; tucked away in a room with Madge and Nellie.

Though Mr. Carson had insisted that the temporary move back into the house did not indicate any assumption of guilt, John was not as sure of his own innocence as others seemed to be. John knew what he was capable of under the influence of alcohol. Coupled with his recent mental breakdown, Mr. Bates could not swear to his own actions one way or the other.

"It's no imposition, Mr. Bates. It's dangerous out there at the moment. It's important that you and Anna are safe."

"What do you think is out there, Mr. Molesley?"

The mousy man looked around as though someone might be lurking in the dresser drawers. "I think the Hoxton gang have followed us to Yorkshire." Molesley whispered.

"What makes you think that?"

"Mr. Andrews has been complaining of poachers again. He says some of the old shacks have been used recently but he can't catch anyone in them. The odd thing is there are no signs of traps or the like."

"What does that mean?"

"There are people living in the poachers digs, but they aren't doing any poaching." Molesley said, his eyes big with emphasis.

"I still don't follow."

"I think there are people watching the house. What if the Hoxton gang heard about Phyllis being here? What if they've come looking for her?"

"Mr. Molesley," Bates said as gently as he could. "I'm sorry, but Miss Baxter is dead."

"They never found a body." Molesley pointed out, clinging to his last shred of hope. It was a feeble hope, but he nursed and protected it as best he could.

"Are you suggesting that they were watching the house and saw an opportunity to kill Lady Flintshire? That doesn't make sense."

"Maybe they tried to get information out of her. Maybe the garden party was too much for them to resist."

"It's hard to believe, Mr. Molesley. It seems very unlikely, but then, it seems unlikely that someone under this roof is capable of such a thing." Bates admitted. "I hope the Yorkshire police are more successful than the London police."

"Until they find the killer, we have to look out for ourselves, Mr. Bates." Molesley nodded eagerly. Tomorrow, he intended to procure a pistol from the house armory. If the Hoxton gang came calling, Joseph Molesley would be ready.

-00-

"What did you tell them?"

"That I was sick, like Madge and that you came to visit me and brought me dinner."

"Good. That should satisfy them. Soon, Mr. Bates will be their only choice. Once they find the stocking, it will be decided."

TBC…


	32. Prime Suspect

Tensions were high at the Abbey the next morning. Lady Rose was suffering the inconsolable guilt that accompanies the death of someone you love but have long wished dead. Memory magnified each of her mother's good qualities and minimized the bad. The hope of reconciliation, of someday finding common ground, was gone forever.

Lady Mary was in a foul mood, still unable to fathom that she had been considered a suspect. She was confident that the police were satisfied with her alibi after speaking to Nanny, but the indignity still burned like the sting of a slap.

Downstairs, people were giving Miss O'Brien a wide berth, unsure of whether to console her or condemn her. The general consensus was that she was the most likely suspect.

After luncheon, the detective and his team returned to conduct follow up interviews. Lady Edith and Lady Rose were both interviewed again as well as Anna and Mr. Bates. Elsie was surprised when her name was called. She joined the detective in the music room.

"Can you help me identify this?" He held up a stretched out woman's stocking. Elsie assumed it was the murder weapon.

"It looks like a woman's stocking, detective. Is there something more you wish to know about it?"

"To whom does this belong?"

"How am I to know?"

"Lady Edith has already told us that Lady Mary wears this brand of stocking."

"I believe she does, but I do not think that she has exclusivity on that privilege."

"No, apparently, Mrs. Bates received a pair as a gift. She reports to us that she is currently unable to locate those stockings. Mrs. Bates has been very cooperative." The implication was obvious; the detective did not think Elsie was being as helpful as she could be.

Elsie repressed the desire to roll her eyes. Of course Anna would be forthcoming with the police. It was Mr. Bates' failure to tell them the full truth from the beginning that got him into such trouble the last go round. If Anna and Mr. Bates were telling all, it meant that the police probably knew that Mr. Bates had been drunk and that Charles had visited him. She knew Charles had not told the police about that. This was not going to look good for Charles, but Elsie, like her husband, could not just throw Mr. Bates to the wolves.

She stood on a razor's edge. She remembered how trapped she'd felt when forced to testify against Mr. Bates in court. She felt trapped again. If she said too much, she might implicate an innocent man. If she said nothing, it might come back to haunt her and Charles.

_But is Mr. Bates innocent? _Despite Charles' reassurances that Mr. Bates was visiting a fertility doctor in London, Elsie still believed that Mr. Bates could be responsible for Mr. Green's death. This was becoming a tangled web. It was time to stop weaving and to cut a few threads if possible.

"Mrs. Bates told me about Lady Mary's generous gift."

"But you didn't think to mention it."

"No. Detective, I did not."

"Are there any other things you've not thought to mention?"

"I should imagine so."

"The general consensus around here is that you know everything that goes on."

"I'm flattered that people think so."

"So, can you tell me some of the things you may have forgotten?"

"You do hear the flaw in your question, do you not, detective?"

"What is that?"

"I can hardly tell you things that I've forgotten. Perhaps you could ask me specific questions and I could answer those." It was a way to cooperate without giving too much away for free, she hoped.

The detective sighed. This one was cagey, but she was not a suspect. She was protecting her husband and possibly Mr. Bates, but Detective Alexander thought she was being honest with him. She would not lie to him, but she was not about to give up any information lightly.

"I understand you have moved back into the house, Mrs. Carson."

"Mr. Carson and I thought it best to have everyone back in the house, for safety."

"By everyone, you mean Mr. and Mrs. Bates as well as you and Mr. Carson?"

"Yes."

"Are you afraid for Mrs. Bates' safety?"

"I was afraid for the safety of anyone outside the house."

"Are you afraid of your husband, Mrs. Carson?"

"What?" This question shocked her.

"We can protect you if you are."

"I have nothing to fear from my husband." Elsie insisted. Now was the right time to be piqued. "You cannot honestly suspect him. What motivation would he have for harming a guest of this house?"

"People in the village tell me he'd do anything for the family." That was not all the people in the village said about Mr. Carson, but it was all that was currently relevant.

"He would, and, as horrible as she was, Lady Flintshire is a member of the family."

"Then you admit she was a horrible woman?"

"One would be daft to deny it."

"I am sure Lady Mary agrees with you."

"I'm sure she does."

"But Lady Mary was in the nursery at the time of the murder."

"That's what I understand."

"But no one knows exactly where your husband was at the time."

"I believe he was looking for Lady Mary." Elsie decided to share a little truth. It was something the detective undoubtedly already knew.

"And what if he found her? What if Lady Mary ordered Mr. Carson to remove this particular wart from the family face?"

"He would talk her back to her senses. He is loyal, Detective, but he is not an automaton. My husband would never hurt a fly."

"You didn't know him thirty years ago."

"No. I did not."

"He more than hurt a fly, Mrs. Carson. In 1892, he beat a man nearly to death. Were you aware of that?"

To her credit, Elsie barely batted an eyelash at this terrible revelation. "He's never mentioned anything of the sort to me. Charles is not a violent man. I must question your information, Detective."

"Sergeant Norris was contacted by the victim himself. They'd asked the public for information about the London case and a man came forward with information about Mr. Carson."

"Does this man have any proof, or is it possible he is just a madman looking for attention?"

"He has hospital records and a police report. Mr. Carson is named on the police report as well as the names of witnesses but no charges were ever filed."

Her mouth was dry, but her exterior was calm. "I cannot explain that without speaking to my husband, Detective, but I assure you, the man I know could not strangle a woman to death."

"That is my point, Mrs. Carson. Do you truly know your husband?"

"Yes, detective, I believe I do." But her mind went back to that mysterious letter that he had received. Was he in contact with someone in London? If so, to what end?

-00-

"You have to tell them everything, Charles." Elsie had cornered him in the silver pantry.

"It will not look good for Mr. Bates."

"Maybe there's a reason for that."

"He didn't do it."

"There's only one way you could be certain of that, Charles, and that's if you are the murderer. Which I don't believe you are." She hastened to add.

"But you do have doubts. I can see it in your eyes."

"They told me about a man you nearly killed thirty years ago."

"A man I…I don't know what you're talking about." Charles looked perplexed.

"The detective said you beat a man nearly to death. They have hospital and police records."

"I never beat a man. I've only ever hit one man in my life. He did have to go to the hospital, but I would not characterize it as nearly beating someone to death."

"Tell me about it."

"It was in London. Grigg and I were working at a theatre south of the river. At the end of the night there were some women of ill repute who would hang out at the stage door. At that time of night, they weren't likely to get any other business. They offered what they called a 'professional discount'.

"I never hired any of them, but we would exchange pleasantries." In response to his wife's glare Charles hurried on. "You did get to recognize some of them and there was no reason to be rude. There was one girl who always talked about her baby girl. I gave her money sometimes, or, more often, some food. It's odd; I don't even remember her name. After a while, she didn't come around anymore."

"What does this have to do with the man you hit?"

"He was their…you know…the guy who…"

"He was their pimp?"

"You should not know such things, Elsie."

"Well I do, now get on with your story."

"He would come around and harass them for their earnings at the end of the night. Near the end of our run at the theatre he was threatening one of the girls. He said, 'If you don't pay up, you'll end up like your stupid friend.'

"The girl gave him everything she had and he left. I know I should have left it alone, but I couldn't help but wonder what had become of the other girl, so I asked. I was told that he'd charged a client extra to beat her. She was so sick from the beating that she couldn't feed her child. The baby got sick and died. The woman killed herself.

"He came back later that week and was bothering another girl. I confronted him. He laughed about what had happened. He said there was one less whore and one less bastard in the world. I lost my temper. I punched him. It was only one punch, but it broke his jaw."

Charles stared into the silver platter in his hand as if it were a window into the past.

"It was such an odd sensation, feeling a man's jaw shatter like that. One moment his face was a solid object and the next, it was like putty. It scared me. I never hit anyone again. I would never hurt anyone, Elsie."

"I'm sorry that I doubted, love." Elsie put her hand on his. "Please, tell them everything."

-00-

The police were vacating the premises and the detective was taking his leave from the family.

"It's still too early to say, Lord Grantham. Please keep an eye out for that other stocking and make sure your people remain vigilant." In the hallway, Detective Alexander turned to the butler who was handing the detective his hat and coat. "I'd like you to come with us, Mr. Carson."

"Am I under arrest?"

"No. We'd just like to speak to you in a more private setting."

"And if I refuse?"

"We may be forced to be more persuasive."

Charles sighed. "I'll fetch my hat and coat."

"We have them here for you, Mr. Carson." A constable arrived from downstairs with Mr. Carson's things. "We wouldn't want you to get any ideas of slipping off."

"Where would I slip off to?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be so worried that you might."

Lady Mary came down the stairs and saw the odd sight of the butler putting on his coat in the main hall.

"What's the meaning of this?"

"I've been invited to answer more questions at the police station, My Lady, of my own free will. Would you please inform Mrs. Carson and Lord Grantham?"

"You don't have to go, Carson."

"I don't mind, My Lady. Just, please be sure Mrs. Carson is told."

"Certainly." Mary stood in the doorway watching as they took her butler away.

TBC...

* * *

><p><strong>AN I told you it was going to get convoluted...**


	33. At the Station

**AN/ Happy belated Birthday to Mona Love.**

* * *

><p>Detective Alexander considered the butler who sat opposite him in a holding room at the St. Marysgate Police Station in Ripon. The complex was rather large and imposing, having once served as a prison, but Mr. Carson did not seem the least intimidated. It was a warm summer day but Mr. Carson was not sweating at all. Mr. Carson did not look comfortable or happy, but he was clearly not nervous.<p>

_Either the man is innocent or he is pathological,_ the detective thought.

"I don't think you're guilty, Mr. Carson." Detective Alexander confessed.

"Then why am I here?"

"I want the killer to think that I am on the wrong trail."

"What makes you so sure that you are?"

"Call it a gut instinct." The constables responsible for conducting interviews in Downton village had all returned with the same report of the Downton butler. The village was agreed that there was not a person in the county more loyal, more trusted or more honorable than Mr. Charles Carson. If a policeman had been foolish enough to suggest Mr. Carson as the murderer, they were usually laughed at, called 'bloody stupid' or worse.

"You're not betraying anyone by cooperating with me, Mr. Carson."

"I have no way of knowing that."

"You think I'll focus on Mr. Bates."

"You know his history as well as you know mine."

"He's already told us about his 'lost afternoon' as he termed it."

Mr. Carson crossed his arms and refused to speak. "Then you don't need anything from me."

"On the contrary, Mr. Carson, we need to know everything you know. You may have seen something that could give us a clue to the identity of the real killer."

"If I had any proof to offer, I would, Detective. Even if it were Mr. Bates." Carson acknowledged. "For Anna's sake."

"I just want to walk through the day with you, to see if you can remember any little thing."

"My wife is the observant one, Detective. I shall try to tell you everything, but I'm not saying anything more until my wife is here."

"We haven't asked Mrs. Carson to come in."

"She'll be here." Charles said confidently.

"Why do you need to wait for her?"

"I told you. She knows more than I do. She sees more." Charles explained. "Besides, we're better as a team."

"Every couple thinks they're Tommy and Tuppance these days." The exasperated detective sighed.

There was knock on the holding room door. "Detective, there's a woman out here to see you. Says her name is Mrs. Elsie Carson."

Charles smiled broadly at the miffed detective.

"I told her you was in here with a suspect, but she didn't care too much to hear that."

"It's fine Constable. Just show her in."

-00-

Sarah O'Brien could not stop smiling. She'd only hoped to frame Mr. Bates, but if she could ruin Mr. Carson, that would be a great feat indeed. It was surprising how quickly her guilt over her own actions had evaporated.

"I've been thinking." She pulled Mrs. Butte aside before dinner. "We could plant the extra stocking in Mr. Carson's pantry."

"How is that going to implicate Mr. Bates?" Lucille wondered. "I was going to hide the stocking in one of his Lordship's shoes in the boot room. One of the hall boys would have found it and they'd have traced it back to Mr. Bates."

"Bugger Mr. Bates. The police think Mr. Carson is the killer, we should help their case along."

"But I thought you wanted to get revenge on Mr. Bates for Thomas?"

"Making anyone in this house suffer is revenge enough. Mr. Carson always favored Bates over Thomas. It's still justice."

_It's nothing like._ "If you say so."

"Mrs. Carson has gone into Ripon, you shouldn't have any problem slipping into the butler's pantry."

"Leave it to me."

A wheel turned slowly in Lucille's head, her short lived alliance was over. She realized that O'Brien did not serve a higher purpose, the woman was just mean and petty. It would be a relief to be on one's own again.

-00-

Mr. and Mrs. Carson sat with Detective Alexander, trying to piece the day together. Carson had described how he found Mr. Bates and he had detailed his search for Lady Mary. They were reviewing the information yet again.

"He was dead drunk. There is no way that he could have woken up and committed this crime."

"I don't think we can assume that, Mr. Carson, but it is unlikely."

"It has to be Miss O'Brien." Carson insisted.

"Miss O'Brien has an alibi." He flipped through his notes. "A Mrs. Butte? She claims they were together and that Miss O'Brien was sick."

"Sick? This is the first I've heard of it." Carson declared.

"She says that she had the same thing another maid had." The policeman supplied.

"Madge did take sick very suddenly." Elsie admitted. "Though it was not like any illness I've seen. It was more like food poisoning."

"Or perhaps just poisoning?" The detective offered.

"I don't know what that would look like." Elsie admitted. "The poor girl was white as a sheet and had the shivers all through the night according to her roommate, Nellie. She was better in the morning, but worn out."

"And you didn't see Miss O'Brien the night after the murder?"

"Mrs. Butte said she was unwell, but I thought she just meant she was upset."

Carson interrupted here and faced the detective defiantly. "If you don't mind my asking, who _do_ you suspect? You seem to agree that it isn't Mr. Bates or Miss O'Brien or Lady Mary or me. Who is left?"

"Mrs. Carson's earlier point is well taken, we need to know if this death is related to the London murders. I'll contact the Sergeant and have him send me the information about Thomas' apparent suicide. I'll have him look more deeply into the Hoxton gang connection, too."

"I'll say; you're brighter than the London police." Charles admitted.

"That's good news for me." Detective Alexander chuckled darkly. "The London detective ended up dead."

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Just a short chapter today, but the next chapter be quite busy and will move us to the M category.**


	34. Angels and Better Angels

**AN/ WARNING: Graphic violence and explicit sexual content in this chapter. This story is now 'M'. There's no going back now.**

* * *

><p>Charles and Elsie returned to Downton Abbey just before midnight. Knowing they needed their sleep, they shared a quick goodnight kiss and retired to their rooms.<p>

The next morning, the staff were surprised to see Mr. Carson at the head of the table as always.

"What did the police have to say?" Molesley asked, in his typical, blundering, blunt way.

"They just wanted a better understanding of Downton and they thought I was the best one to offer it." Carson deflected. While the police wanted to make the real killer relax by treating Carson as their prime suspect, there was no need to lay it on too thick. Carson was concerned that, should the real killer never come to justice, people would default to him as the assumed culprit because of the authorities' interest in him.

"The family are dining at Hutton Magna today. They will be leaving just after four. As thanks for your hard work during the garden party, Lady Grantham is granting everyone a half day." Carson announced. "I do not want anyone out after dark, however. Not with this terrible business still unresolved."

With the state of things, the family did not really want to trek to West Layton to dine, but the date had been set months in advance. Lady Flintshire's funeral was on hold until Shrimpie could be recalled from India. Until his arrival, they had decided to stick to their original calendar of events, which was, thankfully, light.

"Did you hide that stocking yet?" O'Brien hissed to Mrs. Butte in the hallway.

"I told you that I would take care of it." Lucille assured her. "But there are some things we should discuss. Could you meet me up in Her Ladyship's rooms after the family leave?"

"Of course."

-00-

The day passed without any police presence. It almost felt like a normal day, but for Lady Rose wandering about the house red eyed and lost. Lady Grantham had finally brought her in from the garden and gently forbidden her from hanging about at the scene of her mother's death.

With the state of things, the family did not really want to trek to West Layton to dine, but the date had been set months in advance. Lady Flintshire's funeral was on hold until Shrimpie could be recalled from India. Until his arrival, they had decided to stick to their original calendar of events, which was, thankfully, light.

With the family sent off safely, the staff dispersed to enjoy their free afternoon. A group of hall boys and maids went into town for some mischief, Mr. and Mrs. Bates hurried off to their cottage for some privacy and Mr. Molesley went for a walk on the grounds. Specifically, he thought he would snoop around the poacher's shacks. He carried his newly acquired pistol with him.

Charles sat at his desk, trying to catch up on the work he'd missed the day before while at the police station. He assumed Elsie was doing the same, so he was pleasantly surprised when she walked in to his office. "Is everyone off then?" He asked.

"MmHmm." She hummed seductively as she locked the doors to his office, first one and then the other. He watched her cross the room between the doors. She glided with an easy sensuality, well aware that she was being watched. Charles enjoyed the show very much.

"What are you up to, love?" He asked hopefully.

"I think you know the answer to that." She smiled as she faced him and approached his desk. Elsie began slowly unbuttoned her dress. "I've missed you, Charles."

"Here?" He was shocked and excited at the prospect. "I'm honestly not sure, love. I'm still pretty stressed by whole murder business. I don't really trust that the police believe I'm innocent."

"I have ways of relieving that stress, Charles." He pivoted his chair to face her as she rounded his desk, stepping out of her dress. She leaned down, her hands on the arms of his chair, her bosom displayed to best advantage briefly before she kissed him. His hands were drawn to her body like the tide to the shore, caressing her with loving undulations.

She moved her lips to his ear and whispered huskily. "Relax, love. Just leave everything to your Elsie. She'll take good care of you." Her hands undid his collar as her lips began to trail down his neck, beginning her slow journey down her husband's burning body.

-00-

"I never thought I'd set foot in this room again." O'Brien joked, trying to shake off the unwelcome sensations of standing once more in Lady Grantham's room. The door to the bathroom looked at her accusingly.

"I just need to rearrange some things and I thought this would be the most private place to talk." Lucille was busying herself about at Lady Grantham's dressing table.

"What do we need to discuss?"

"You were going to tell me about Lady Grantham's baby boy."

"She never had…"

"She never _gave birth_ to a son, but she _had_ a baby boy." Lucille cut in. Now was the time for hard truths. "Tell me about him."

"It was a miscarriage, nothing out of the usual way for a woman her age."

"Anna said she fell; slipped on a broken bar of soap. I know you, Miss O'Brien, something like that would not have escaped your notice."

"Well, it did that day." O'Brien shot back.

"I don't believe you."

"I didn't do anything on purpose, it was an oversight."

"I don't believe you." Lucille repeated in a dead monotone.

"I thought she was going to sack me! I thought she had betrayed me."

"Did you mean for the baby to die? Did you want Lady Grantham to die?"

"No! I just wanted the stupid cow to slip and hurt herself a little. I didn't think the baby would be affected. I didn't think of that at all. I just wanted her to get a black eye or a broken arm; something to remember me by." O'Brien gushed angrily. "I changed my mind, I tried to go back and stop her, but it was too late. I regret it every day of my life."

"Ah, regret," Lucille sighed. "The most useless of emotions. And _that is_ saying something." She turned back to her task as though they'd just been discussing the length of hemlines for the next Season.

"Have you smelled this new perfume?" Lucille asked the silent O'Brien, picking up an odd looking bottle. "It's from Paris, Lady Grantham is devoted to it."

O'Brien shrugged.

"Now, now, don't pout. Come over here and give it a sniff. It will make you forget all your worries." Lucille poured some of the liquid onto a handkerchief. Miss O'Brien stepped toward her. Sarah never even thought to struggle as Lucille pushed the cloth to her face, forcing the chloroform down her lungs. Within seconds, O'Brien had collapsed upon the floor.

Lucille tied the handkerchief around O'Brien's face and poured another splash of the sweet-smelling liquid onto the cloth. Lucille let herself enjoy the slight euphoria she felt from the stray chloroform she had inhaled.

The room swam pleasantly as she floated to the bathroom to draw a warm bath for her victim.

"You are about to learn all about justice, Miss O'Brien, lovely, poetic justice."

-00-

"Oh, God!" Charles exclaimed as Elsie's lips wrapped around his cock drove him nearly mad. His knuckles were white as he gripped the arm of his chair. He did not trust himself to touch her for fear he would pull out her hair in his ecstasy.

She'd suckled him in this way before, but not like this; never like _this._ She was on a mission to make him forget everything. She was succeeding. For the past ten minutes, she had teased him, leading him down a debauched primrose path and back again so many times he had lost all sensible thought.

It always humbled and excited Charles to have this strong woman kneeling before him, but today it was her skilled attentions that were spurring his joy on to the point of frenzy. She knew just where to pinch, what to pull and when to lick.

His labored breathing and loss of coherent words told her it was almost time to let him have his release. She felt powerful and benevolent, like an angel of mercy as she led him to his climax.

Knowing Charles' sense of fairness, Elsie knew that her benevolence would be repaid in kind sooner rather than later. This thought filled her mind as his cum filled her hand.

-00-

Lucille dragged O'Brien into the bathroom before she began to undress the unconscious maid. With some difficulty, she slipped O'Brien's naked body into the near scalding water. The water level was low enough that O'Brien's head was in no danger of slipping below the surface. With her former ally in place, Lucille removed the chloroform soaked handkerchief from the Irishwoman's face and waited.

It was not too long before Miss O'Brien began to stir.

-00-

"Elsie, my love, thank you." Charles purred with contentment as he held Elsie on his lap. There was not an ounce of tension left in his body.

"Anything for my big bear." She cooed, using a nickname she had given him during their first nights together as man and wife. Whenever she used it, he remembered a game they had invented. He knew what she wanted from him and he was more than willing to give it.

"Mmm. Your big bear wants his honey." He growled low as he nibbled at her neck. "Where is my honey?"

His head dropped to her breast as he licked at her nipples hungrily, first one and then the other. "Mmm. Tasty, but not sweet like my honey."

She shook her head and smiled as she flung back her head, holding her breasts up to him as his tongue bathed them. "No. No honey there."

His mouth reluctantly left the firmness of her nipples and followed the pulsing flow of her blood from her heart, up her neck and to her flushed lips. He licked and sucked her lips, making a show of tasting every angle of her mouth. Her smile grew as she felt his hand climbing the inside of her thigh. They were obviously playing the shortened version of their game. Elsie was glad to know it.

"Such sweet nectar from your lips, my love," he whispered, "But no honey."

"No. No honey there."

As always, she felt silly and more than a little ridiculous playing their little game, but she loved it. This was a side of her no one else would believe existed; her playful side. She relished the intimacy of teasing him and being teased. Elsie kissed her husband again, letting her sweet anticipation grow as his fingers snaked their nimble way around the damp cloth of her knickers.

Charles was surprised at the amount of wetness he found when his questing fingers reached their destination. She moaned with pleasure as he moved his hand slowly, stirring up her desire. She whimpered in discontent as he withdrew his fingers from inside her even though she knew what was to follow.

"What have we here?" He continued to act out their fantasy as he brought his fingers to his lips, tasting their stickiness. She watched him closely. Her eyelids were heavy with lust. His eyes were closed completely, his fingers still in his mouth. "Mmm. There's my honey."

With gentle force and patient speed, he took her by the hips and set her on the desk before him. Her knickers disappeared somewhere in the transition from his lap to his desk. She sat before him, legs spread; vulnerable, but in control. "Does Bear want his honey?"

Pressing his snout to her sweetness, his answer was more growl than words. "Bear wants his honey."

-00-

"Are you awake, Miss O'Brien?"

"Mm?"

"I'm afraid I can't let you wake too much, but I wanted to make sure you appreciated your position." Lucille was standing at the head of the tub. She turned on the hot water and walked up towards the other end of the tub where O'Brien's head lolled about. The Irishwoman was trying to look around her, but lacked the strength to hold her head up properly.

Lucille wore only her shift as she towered over Sarah's naked form. This state of undress was for practical, not sexual purposes. Lucille was calm, emotionless and detached.

"You are in the very bath where Lady Grantham once sat trusting you. This is where you became a killer."

A pained look of recognition came to O'Brien's face, but she still could not speak.

"But you are the worst kind of killer, Miss O'Brien. You are impulsive and your actions lack purpose. In short, you are an imperfect instrument. I, on the other hand, am honed. Like this instrument." She held up Lord Grantham's straight razor. "You spoke of justice for Thomas, but you did not care about justice. You should have cared, for I am an angel of Justice."

"Mad." O'Brien mumbled through the anesthetic haze. O'Brien was becoming more active, she was struggling to get her feet underneath her, trying to pull herself out of the bath. "You're mad."

"Undoubtedly." Lucille smiled. "The best angels always are a bit mad. Don't worry, Miss O'Brien, no one escapes judgment. I killed Thomas. I killed them all. My day…? Well, my day will come, but yours is already here."

Lucille pressed the handle of the razor into O'Brien's right hand, then, quick as lightning, she grabbed O'Brien's left hand and brought the two together. The honed instrument did its work and the bathwater ran red.

Lucille washed her hands under the already running water and then turned off the faucet. She dressed calmly and left the bathroom, taking the handkerchief with her. On her way out of Lady Grantham's room, Lucille retrieved the perfume bottle filled with Chloroform.

-00-

Elsie was back in her husband's arms, but now, they were both laying on the floor of his office. Relaxed and spent, the happy pair could not stop caressing each other. Their urgency was over; their passion consumed for the time being.

"We best get dressed, love." She said reluctantly. "The others will be back soon and the family not long after that."

"If we lock all the doors and are very quiet, maybe they'll go away and leave us be." Charles yawned and stretched.

"When we get back to our cottage, we will lock the doors and never let anyone in." Elsie promised, watching her great bear stretch.

"I hope we can go home soon." He kissed her hair before casting his eyes about the room in search of his undershorts.

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN Now I will officially seek help. This started out just as Lucille killing O'Brien in the tub, but it was too much when taken all by itself. So I threw in the Chelsie. **

**Thoughts? Recommendations for psychotherapy? **


	35. Gone Missing

Dinner was served at eight with the family out. Most of the staff returned for dinner at the Abbey that night. The only people conspicuously absent as night fell were Mr. Molesley and Miss O'Brien.

"Lady Rose won't be happy if Miss O'Brien isn't here when she gets back," Madge whispered to Nellie as they sat in the servant's hall after dinner leafing through the latest _Eve_ magazine.

"Lady Rose isn't going to be happy, regardless." Nellie reminded her.

"You don't have to tell me. I was glad to hand her off to Miss O'Brien. My poor nerves can't take all that crying." Madge looked at an illustration and wondered if she should bob her hair. "I've been thinking of trying to find another position. If Mrs. Carson will give me a good reference, I might be able to get a position as a proper ladies' maid."

"Aren't you that now?" Nellie asked.

"I do the work, but they still just consider me a housemaid."

"But head housemaid, right?"

"Yes. And Lady Edith isn't really that much trouble. I like the house just fine, only I feel like something's gone wrong here. Don't you feel it?" Madge looked around warily. "I just don't feel safe here."

"Maybe we're just more used to crime in London." Nellie dismissed her friend's worrying. "I'm right sorry about Lady Flintshire, but I don't think whoever killed her would every think about hurting me."

"Exactly. They wouldn't even think about it. We're less than Lady Flintshire. Anyone what as would kill her wouldn't think no more of killing us than swatting a fly."

"Nah, you've got it all wrong. My gran followed all those gruesome crimes in London. It was either for money or because the girls were living improper like. We haven't got any money and we're good girls. We don't have anything to fear."

"That's enough of that kind of talk. girls," Mrs. Butte said softly as she read in one of the chairs beside the cold fireplace. "Miss O'Brien is a seasoned Lady's maid. I'm sure she'll be back before the family returns."

"Here here. Let's not conjure her up by talking about her." Anna and Mr. Bates were sitting at the table mending and reading respectively. Anna gave the girls a wink and Mr. Bates smiled at her. "Let's enjoy the peace and quiet. We shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Do you know where she went, Mrs. Butte?" Mrs. Carson asked, walking into the room to freshen her tea.

"I haven't seen her since the family left." Lucille said nonchalantly.

"Only, you are sharing a room and I had hoped you might know. She usually spends her time here in the servant's hall."

"She went out for a smoke after the family left. Said she might take a stroll. That's all I know."

"That was over five hours ago. That's quite a stroll." Elsie didn't like the feel of it. Something was wrong. "Well, I'm sure she'll show up. Maybe she's straightening some things for Lady Rose. The poor girl needs some extra attention just now."

Elsie smiled at everyone before leaving with her warmed cup up tea.

"Mrs. Carson was looking rather sparkly-eyed this evening, don't you think?" Mr. Bates whispered to Anna.

"You're not one to judge, Mr. Bates. Your eyes are a bit sparkly too." She replied so the others could not hear.

"And who's to blame for that?" He returned, pinching her under the table.

Anna bit back a giggle and continued with her mending.

-00-

"Charles?"

"Hmm?" He was bent over the ledgers he had neglected in favor of his wife earlier in the day.

"I'm worried about Miss O'Brien."

"Aren't we all? Let's just keep our eyes open and leave the matter to the police."

"That's not what I mean. She hasn't been seen since the family left."

"Maybe she decided to make a run for it. It certainly would simplify things."

"Since when has Miss O'Brien ever made things simple for anyone?"

He put down his pen and considered his wife in the doorway. "What do you propose we do about it? We've given everyone the half day. We can't start searching for someone who isn't technically missing."

"I know, I know, it's just…most everyone's back and she never was one for going into town. It's odd, but...never mind, I suppose."

"I trust your instincts, love, but there's nothing we can do for now."

She accepted this wisdom reluctantly and came in to sit down opposite her husband. "I don't like being on the defensive. I'd rather be out in front of this."

"How?"

"Maybe you should talk to Mrs. Butte."

"Can't you speak to her?"

"She still doesn't like me much. She might be more willing to cooperate with you."

"What do we want her to do?"

"Help us look for Miss O'Brien, search their room, I hardly know, but it would be nice to have someone watching O'Brien."

"I thought you didn't trust Mrs. Butte."

"We shouldn't trust her with any information, but we can trust her to keep her eyes open and tell us what she sees. Or to search the room."

"Now?"

"Why not?"

"If it will put your mind at rest." He pushed back from his desk and stood. She took his hand as he walked by her.

"Thank you, love."

He leaned down and kissed her cheek before heading into the servant's hall.

"Mrs. Butte, may I have a word?"

Elsie had left his office by the time he returned with Lucille.

"Please sit down, Mrs. Butte. I am sorry to disturb your reading, but I believe this is important."

"Is this about Miss O'Brien? Because I already told Mrs. Carson that I don't know where she is."

"Yes, but she is your roommate, you must have some idea."

"Am I my roommate's keeper?" Lucille joked, enjoying the irony that Mr. Carson could not be aware of. **

"No,' It bothered Carson how often this line was misused, but he chose not to point out that the line she was purposefully misquoting was not apropos to the present situation. He didn't think Mrs. Butte was intentionally quoting a murderer; the first murderer to be precise. " But perhaps she left a clue in the room. When were you last in your room?"

"Just before dinner."

"And had she moved anything around, as far as you could see?"

"Not that I noticed."

"Were her things there?"

"Why wouldn't they be?"

"I don't know, she did sneak out in the middle of the night once before."

"I think her things were there."

"Would you be willing to look more closely?"

"Right now?"

"If you could. I'd like to have an answer for Lady Rose if Miss O'Brien isn't around when the family returns."

"Very well, Mr. Carson. I will look, but I don't know what I am looking for."

"Thank you, Mrs. Butte."

-00-

Elsie was in the butler's pantry with her tea by the time Mrs. Butte returned from her search.

"I didn't see anything out of place," Lucille reported. Both Carsons looked disappointed. "But I did find this." Lucille held up a woman's stocking.

Elsie jumped up from her chair, almost spilling her tea. Elsie took the stocking and turned it over. "It's Lady Mary's brand," She confirmed. "Where did you find it?"

"I opened Miss O'Brien's suitcase to see if she'd packed it. You said she might try running." Lucille looked at Carson. "That was the only thing in it. The police were asking about a woman's stocking so I thought it might be of interest."

"I'll call the police." Charles said, looking at his wife for confirmation. She nodded.

"We need to find her." Elsie insisted. "I'll call everyone down to the hall and we'll organize a search."

By the time everyone was assembled, Carson returned from phoning the police. "They are on their way. Detective Alexander doesn't want us to look for her." He whispered to Elsie.

"Then he'd better get here quickly." She countered. "Oh, and there's another problem."

"What's that?"

"Mr. Molesley is still missing too."

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN **I don't know if I need to explain the 'Am I my brother's keeper?' reference. I didn't want to take time in the story to belabor the point, but in case you don't know the story, here's a quick summary... It's from the Bible, when Cain lies to God about not knowing where Abel is even though he knows full well where he stashed his brother's body. **


	36. Deja Vu All Over Again

The family returned home just as the police were arriving.

"What's the meaning of this?" Lord Grantham asked Carson who met them all at the door.

"Several things happened while you were out, My Lord. Miss O'Brien and Mr. Molesley have both gone missing and we've found some possible evidence pertinent to Lady Flintshire's murder." The butler explained calmly and quickly, out of earshot of the ladies. "The police have come to help us search and to collect the evidence."

"We'll try to stay out of your way, Lord Grantham." Detective Alexander assured the perturbed Lord. "We'll search the family rooms first." The detective motioned for four of his men to head upstairs.

"Thank you, Detective. We've all had a very long day and I think the ladies are ready to retire for the night." Carson escorted the ladies into the library where a light tea waited for them. Robert was thankful that George and Nanny had spend the day with Mrs. Crawley at Crawley House and were staying over tonight.

"You think Mr. Molesley or Miss O'Brien are hiding in the family rooms?" Robert looked up at the departing policemen with consternation.

"They could be anywhere."

"You don't think they are together, do you?"

_What a revolting thought._ Carson shivered, as he returned to the conversation, but held his tongue.

"We don't have any reason to think that, milord." The detective answered.

"I'm sure Mr. Molesley will show up, My Lord." Carson offered. "The staff had the night off and he wasn't given any specific time to be back, I only recommended that they all be back before dark."

"It's well past dark." The Earl noted.

"Which is the only reason we're concerned."

"We'll organize a search of the grounds once we've finished with the house." Detective Alexander said. "Until then…"

"Detective!" A constable with a flushed face rushed into view at the top of the gallery. "You're needed upstairs immediately."

"Excuse me, gentlemen."

Carson and Lord Grantham joined the ladies in the library. Lady Cora was sitting closely with Lady Rose, soothing the poor girl's raw nerves. She'd done relatively well at the dinner, finding some comfort in the bland normalcy of Yorkshire society. The sight of the police had upset her anew.

Ladies Edith and Mary sat calmly sipping tea that they did not want. It was not long before Detective Alexander requested that Lord Grantham and Carson join him in the Grand Hall.

"I'm afraid we have found Miss O'Brien."

"And?"

"She is dead, by her own hand, apparently."

"Good God." Robert hoped the detective would not go into too much detail.

"I am afraid I must ask Lady Grantham to give up her bedroom for the night."

"Give up…"

"It is now a crime scene; a rather gory one. It will take some time to process."

"She killed herself in our rooms?"

"In the bathroom, to be specific, she slit her wrists in the tub."

Lord Grantham winced. Those were precisely the details he did not want to hear. Cora could never know, or they would have to get a new bathtub or maybe even move rooms.

"I shall have Mrs. Carson prepare a room, My Lord." Carson moved to the cord and rang for his wife.

"What of Mr. Molesley?" Carson asked the detective.

"He's no longer a priority. I'm sure he will turn up."

"He has turned up," Elsie confirmed as she emerged from the green baize door. "Says he was walking and lost track of the time. I think you should speak to him, Mr. Carson."

"Oh, I will, but, as the detective said, he's not the priority anymore. Would you please have a room prepared for Her Ladyship? The police will be in her rooms for the foreseeable future." His look told her not to ask questions now.

Though this request was a shock to Elsie, but she did not show it. "Of course, Fontenoy would be best. Give me ten minutes." Fontenoy was smaller than their normal room, but had the advantage of an en suite bathroom, unlike many of the guest rooms. Also, it was not too far from Lord Grantham's room, being the guest room closest to the family rooms.

Elsie hurried away only sparing a quick look at her husband who nodded reassuringly.

Lord Grantham looked uncomfortably at the detective. "The other rooms are available now?"

"I should think so. We'll need to talk to people again tomorrow, but people may turn in for the night. I think we know who killed Lady Flintshire."

Carson looked uncomfortable at this statement and cleared his throat.

"Is there something you want to add, Carson?" Lord Grantham knew his butler's mannerisms.

"It's only that this seems remarkably similar to the resolution in London. A suspect committing suicide seems to be a good way to get the police to close a case. Besides, Detective, you said Miss O'Brien had an alibi."

"It wasn't an ironclad alibi; we could have gotten the time of death wrong. Need I remind you, Mr. Carson that you were the one who was so sure it was Miss O'Brien."

"While I believe Miss O'Brien could kill, she is not of the personality to kill _herself_, Detective. No more than Thomas was." Carson insisted. "I don't mean to stir up trouble, but please promise me you'll look very closely at the scene and not assume anything."

"I promise you that, Mr. Carson. Thank you for voicing your concerns."

After a small scramble below stairs, Fontenoy was ready for Lady Grantham and the other ladies retired to their respective rooms. They'd only been told that Miss O'Brien was dead and that evidence had been found in Lady Grantham's rooms. Most of them had put two and two together, however, and Lady Grantham was wondering if she would ever be able to sleep in her own room again.

Mr. Molesley was waiting for Mr. Carson in the butler's pantry when Mr. Carson finally came downstairs.

"It isn't like you to disappear like that, Mr. Molesley. At least not since we've returned to Downton." Carson alluded to Mr. Molesley's habit of running around London searching for Miss Baxter.

"I understood that we had the rest of the day off." Molesley answered defensively.

"Yes, but I asked everyone to be back by dark."

"I thought that was only a suggestion."

"I am used to my suggestions being taken more seriously. These are dangerous times, or they _were_ dangerous."

"They still may be." Molesley mumbled enigmatically.

"Do you know something that may be useful to the police, Mr. Molesley?"

"Me, Mr. Carson? I don't know anything, but if I do, you shall be the first to know."

"You make me quite nervous." Carson dismissed the uncooperative footman.

Mrs. Carson was waiting outside the door and came in as Mr. Molesley left. "Are we all returning to our own homes tonight, Mr. Carson? Only, Mr. Bates was asking." She looked at her husband playfully, but was disturbed at his response.

"I think we should all remain as we are, love. With the change of rooms, I think Anna should be on hand for Her Ladyship."

"You're telling half-truths again, Mr. Carson."

He motioned for her to come further into the room and close the door.

"Don't you find all of this rather convenient? Another murderer decides to do themselves in?"

"There is no pleasing you, Mr. Carson. Just as you are proven right about Miss O'Brien, you come over to my theory about Lady Flintshire's killer being linked to London as well?"

"Could you name two people less likely to kill themselves out of guilt than Thomas and O'Brien?"

"No."

"And in the space of a month, they both do precisely that? It doesn't add up."

"Do you suspect Mr. Bates again? I am fairly certain he and Anna were not in the house today."

"How would we know who was in the house? You and I were the only ones here to see who might come and go by the servant's door. We weren't exactly vigilant. It could have been anyone." He was struggling to get facts straight in his mind. None of his suspicions made sense. "You once joked that it might be Mr. Molesley or Mrs. Butte, but both are plausible."

"Yes, precisely, that was a joke. I also suggested Daisy."

"But Mr. Molesley was missing all afternoon, which is odd. And Mrs. Butte admitted that she was up in Lady Grantham's room earlier."

"She is Lady Grantham's maid, I would be suspicious if she _didn't_ admit to being there."

"Mrs. Butte was O'Brien's alibi, she found the missing stocking and…" He hesitated to even mention this last. "She said something odd when I asked her where we might find Miss O'Brien."

"And you accused _me _of being paranoid. I think the most obvious answer is probably the truth. Both Thomas and Miss O'Brien must have been more disturbed than we ever suspected." She stepped close to him and put her hands on his chest, rubbing soothingly. "Leave it to the police. You don't have to protect everyone all on your own, love."

"I'm certainly doing a poor job of it."

"Let's go home. Let Anna and Mr. Bates go home. Stop worrying."

"You think I'm being ridiculous." He placed a hand on one of hers on his chest and frowned down at her.

"Listen to yourself; you're honestly proposing that Mr. Molesley or Mrs. Butte are behind these terrible things?"

"It could be Mr. Molesley _and_ Mrs. Butte." He remembered His Lordship's words and how odd the footman had acted.

Elsie thought he was joking and started to laugh, but stopped when she realized that he was serious.

"I don't think anyone could have done all of this alone." He reasoned. "Mr. Molesley and Mrs. Butte have been very close since Miss Baxter died. Maybe they were close before and we just didn't know it."

"Charles," Elsie was beginning to truly worry about him. "Miss O'Brien's suicide convinced me that it was O'Brien that killed Lady Flintshire and that it wasn't related to the London events. Don't go looking for trouble."

"Fine." He acquiesced. "Tell Mr. Bates that he and Anna can return to their cottage tonight. If someone is trying to get away with Lady Flintshire's murder, they'd be stupid to hurt anyone tonight."

Pleased with his decision, but not his reasoning, Elsie gave him a soft kiss on the lips and nodded before leaving.

It was after midnight when Charles and Elsie arrived home. The stress he felt was evident in his exhausted posture that he finally let himself slump into once they were inside. He made sure to lock the door behind them.

"You wash up, Charles. I'll be right up. I need to put away these things Mrs. Patmore picked up for me in town today." She set the satchel of food on the table and opened the pantry. Elsie hummed lightly to herself as she stored the spices and staples. She stopped humming as she looked more closely at the pantry. Something was wrong. Only someone as meticulous as Mrs. Carson would have noticed, but things had been moved. Someone had been in their house.

Just then, there were noises from upstairs. There was a crash, a door slammed and something heavy fell to the floor above her head. Heedless of any danger, Elsie ran towards the sounds. Someone was still in their house.

TBC…


	37. The Truth at Last

**AN/ I didn't have the heart to leave you hanging for too long...here ya go.**

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><p>"Charles!"<p>

Elsie ran up the stairs and towards the guest bedroom. She saw things in bright relief, flashes of information as she sought her husband. Elsie knew she should not just go running in unarmed and unprepared, but her concern for Charles trumped logic. She could see into the bathroom as she ran down the hall. His shaving mug was shattered on the floor. The door to the guest room was shut and there were sounds of scuffling behind it. Elsie pushed on the door, but something was obstructing it. She pushed harder and the door flew open. Elsie stumbled into the room where she found Mr. Carson wrestling on the floor with…"Miss Baxter!"

The sound of Elsie's voice caused both combatants to stop immediately. Miss Baxter had been trying to escape and Mr. Carson was trying to hold her.

"Stop this at once! Charles, let her go. Miss Baxter, kindly stay where you are."

They both obeyed, as they'd been trained to do. Elsie looked at Miss Baxter closely. Her hair was wet and she was wearing one of Elsie's robes. Noticing that the former ladies maid was even thinner than usual, Elsie remembered the food pantry. Miss Baxter had clearly not taken much for fear of being discovered. Elsie thought Miss Baxter might be still hungry.

"Now then. It is not every day that someone returns from the dead. I think this calls for tea. Charles, would you please put the kettle on? I'll find some clean clothes for Miss Baxter." She had noticed the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. The poor woman had obviously been living quite wild.

Unable to argue, Charles stood up and dusted himself off. He was wearing his trousers and undershirt. He pulled his braces up with as much dignity as he could muster and quit the room. Elsie rummaged through the spare clothes stored in their guest room and found something suitable for Miss Baxter.

"Come downstairs when you are ready. Do not try to run. The police are at Downton this very instant and we will not hesitate to call if you do not cooperate." She turned and walked calmly back the path she had just run. She paused at the top of the stairs to allow herself a moment of relief. When she first heard the noises upstairs, she had feared the worst. This was an odd situation, to be sure, but Charles was safe. Nothing else mattered.

She found her man preparing tea and muttering to himself. "Makes no bloody sense."

"Let's withhold judgment until we hear Miss Baxter's side of the story, love."

"But I ask you! Letting people believe she was dead! What's the point in that?"

"I'm sure she will explain."

"We ought to call the house had have the police sent here. Let them sort it out."

"We can always do that, but once it's done, we can't undo it."

The tea was ready by the time Phyllis joined them. She looked contrite but wary. She was a little surprised not to find the police waiting for her. Mr. Carson's stern look told her it was Mrs. Carson's grace to which she owed her continued freedom.

Elsie poured tea for Miss Baxter and offered her a small plate of ham sandwiches. Miss Baxter devoured them as daintily as she could. Her food supply had been woefully wanting. She'd been limited to apples and carrots stolen from the horses for the past week. When the plate was empty, Phyllis leaned back in the chair and smiled at Elsie gratefully. Charles just watched her with an anticipatory look on his face.

"Now then." Elsie said calmly. "I believe there is an explanation owing."

Phyllis nodded and began her story.

She told of her fear of her family finding her. She told of hiding out in London and seeking passage to America. She told how Mrs. Butte had found her.

"She said that Joseph was coming. I drank some wine and lay down. I hadn't slept properly in days. The next thing I remember clearly was when I hit the water. I was going to come ashore, but I heard people saying that I'd shot someone."

"Did you shoot Detective Vance?" Elsie asked.

"I don't think so. I don't remember having the gun after I went to sleep, but it's all too hazy."

"Mrs. Butte never mentioned finding you." Charles told her. "It's not the kind of thing one forgets to mention."

"No." Elsie agreed.

"I was under the dock when Joseph jumped in. I was frightened and confused. I still wasn't sure if my family had anything to do with the murders. I listened to the police on the dock. It sounded like they wanted to arrest me; they thought I'd shot someone. I was scared, so I floated downriver before trying to climb out. I stole some clothes and enough money to come north. I've been living in the poacher's shacks waiting for the family to come home."

"Why?"

"I thought I might be able to contact Joseph and find out what exactly happened. In London, either the police or my family would have found me if I'd stayed there. I don't know London very well, except the places my family runs."

Though it was a warm night, Phyllis was shivering. Mr. Carson brought a throw from the couch and Mrs. Carson wrapped it around the trembling woman.

"The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Mrs. Butte was the murderer; that she'd killed everyone. I was surprise to see her return to Downton with the family. I decided that contacting Joseph wasn't safe. I decided to watch and see what Mrs. Butte did."

"Did she kill Lady Flintshire?"

"I don't know. I didn't see anything. Miss O'Brien visited the Bates' cottage not long after Mr. Carson left, but I didn't see Mrs. Butte that day."

"Why were you here tonight?"

"I was hungry and dirty. With the servants given the half day today, I had to be extra careful. Some of the hall boys come to the shacks to drink and play cards."

"They what?" Charles interrupted angrily.

Elsie put a hand on his arm. "That's not really the point, love."

"Oh, of course not. I'm sorry, please continue."

"I had to hide from them, but I heard them talking about how it was harder to sneak into the courtyard for an evening rendezvous when the two of you are staying in the house."

Charles tensed in consternation, but did not interrupt again.

"I knew you had not been here last night and I believed you would not be here tonight. I wanted a bath and to sleep in a real bed. Also, my food has been little more than what I can steal from the barns."

"How did you get in?" Charles demanded.

"These locks are easy to pick. My father taught me when I was a girl." Her smile was guilty and apologetic.

"You poor dear." Elsie could not help but embrace the Phyllis. "You've been through so much."

"You have to tell the police everything you know." Charles insisted.

"No!" Phyllis panicked. "They think I killed that detective. They'll just arrest me and ignore everything I say."

"We can't keep her here." Charles answered Elsie's silent look. "That's called aiding and abetting."

"Only if she's a criminal, which she is not. We have to find the evidence to clear her and expose Mrs. Butte." Elsie said sternly before speaking softly to Miss Baxter. "We should tell Mr. Molesley. He'll be so relieved that you're alive."

"No. He wouldn't be able to hide the truth from Mrs. Butte. He's too honest and she's too shrewd.

"He came to the shacks today, after the hall boys left. He searched them all, I think. It was hard for me to stay a step ahead of him. I didn't dare sneak over here until he'd left off his search after dark. If he knew I was here, it would only put him in danger." Phyllis pleaded. "You mustn't tell anyone else."

"I don't like it." Charles declared. "How are we supposed to find something on Mrs. Butte? She's not likely to try and hurt anyone else anytime soon. It could be a very long time. If we let you stay here, you're bound to be discovered and then, how will that look? And what if she does hurt someone else? It would be on our conscience."

"What do you propose?"

"Go to the police. Turn Mrs. Butte in. Tell them that you saw her shoot Detective Vance."

"But I don't remember it exactly. Sometimes I think I do, but I may have imagined it."

"Either you shot him or Mrs. Butte shot him." Charles insisted.

"The police think it is me. Are they going to take my word over Mrs. Butte's? Especially when my recollection is so uncertain?"

"Then what do we do?"

"We do as she said." Elsie said softly. "We wait and we watch."

"It seems like a ticking time bomb to me." Charles grumbled, but accepted his wife's judgment.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I will only say to Chelsie fan, "Yes,you're very smart. Shut up." [ I say that with love; GraysonSteele has me quoting Princess Bride.] **

**I couldn't kill Miss Baxter; she's too sweet. If you've seen some of the Vanity Fair photos, I didn't even recognize the actress who plays Baxter. She cleans up nicely. Molesley would be very pleased.**

**I don't think that ticking time bomb will tick for very long...not now that Charles and Elsie are on to Mrs. Butte.**

**Thoughts?**


	38. From the Mouths of Babes

**AN/ FYI, There were two updates yesterday...if you don't know who the home intruder was, go back one chapter.**

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><p>Elsie and Charles left Phyllis in their cottage the next morning with strict instructions to stay put through the day. She was not even to open any of the windows or curtains. Charles voiced his concerns once more as they approached the house. They were still taking the long way around, avoiding the garden where Lady Flintshire was killed.<p>

"How am I supposed to face her? She'll see right through me." He worried.

"Leave her to me. I'll keep Mrs. Butte busy today." Elsie promised. "You just go about your business as usual."

"Easier said than done." He pouted as they arrived at the servant's door. "The police will still be about today and they will want to talk to me."

"So?"

"You expect me to lie to them?"

Elsie saw his point. "Don't lie to them, just don't tell them everything."

"Brilliant, love. Why didn't I think of that?"

-00-

Breakfast was a tense affair. Everyone had been told about O'Brien the night before, but there were still questions. Mr. Carson tried to squash the talk, but failed miserably. He was too distracted by Mrs. Butte sitting to his left to act naturally. When the bells began to ring, he jumped up from his seat and all but ran to the stairs.

"Oh, excuse me!" Charles had plowed into someone coming out of the kitchen. He looked down to see Nellie clutching a plate of fresh toast to her chest.

"Nellie! How many times do I have to tell you to use the other door?" Mrs. Patmore yelled from the kitchen. "Sometimes I wonder why I bother speaking at all. It's not as though anyone's listening!" Beryl trailed off as she continued ranting into the pantry.

Checking that none of the crumbs had contaminated him, Carson looked down at the tiny, flustered kitchen maid. _She's so innocent looking,_ he thought. Feeling a deep pity for the girl. _There's no way she knows what her mother has done._ This thought gave Carson an idea.

"Don't worry, Nellie. No harm done." He smiled benevolently. "I know, Mrs. Patmore is very pleased with your work. Most of the time."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson." The girl muttered, unable to look him in the eye.

"In fact, Mrs. Carson and I wanted to speak to you to make sure you are settling in well. With all the strange happenings, we've not had the chance to talk to you as we usually do with new staff."

Nellie did look up now and she looked terrified.

"There's nothing to be alarmed about, child. We just want to be sure you're happy here. If you could spare a few moments later this morning, I would be grateful."

Elsie had come up behind them. She immediately discerned what her husband had in mind and jumped in to help. "I'll speak to Mrs. Patmore and make sure she can spare you."

-00-

Nellie nibbled at the biscuit as she sat before the imposing, unified front of housekeeper and butler. They were both smiling kindly, but they were still undeniably the authorities of the house.

"I hope Madge has been a pleasant roommate." Mrs. Carson prompted.

"Oh, yes. She and I get along very well. She's actually shared my bed the past few nights, the business with Lady Flintshire has her that scared."

"But it doesn't scare you?" Carson asked.

"I tried to make her see that these things happen. I suppose we're more used to them in London."

"Do you miss London?" Mrs. Carson asked.

"A little. I miss Clive more than anything."

"Your brother?" Carson answered his wife's unasked question. "Have you heard from him since you came to Yorkshire?"

"No, nor am I likely to. He writes to Mum."

"He was in the war, wasn't he? I remember your mother saying." Carson tried to make small talk. Anything they could learn about Mrs. Butte could be helpful.

"Aye, he was hurt bad in the South of France." She didn't want to talk about Clive's opium habit.

"We owe him a debt." Mrs. Carson said kindly. "What does he do?"

"Odd jobs, but he's not too reliable. Mum left him in charge of the house after Gran died and she was offered a position here. She sends him money."

"I was sorry to hear about your Grandmother. I understand she was an invalid." Mrs. Carson's gentle smile helped Nellie relax despite the topic.

"Oh, she was fine physically, we just couldn't leave her alone or she might wander off. Sometimes she was as smart as a whip, but her grasp on reality wasn't too strong."

"If your work here is any proof, she was well looked after." The compliment from the stogy butler encouraged Nellie to speak more freely.

"She wasn't any problem. She used to read her Penny Dreadfuls to me in the afternoons when I brought her tea. I can see the person she used to be."

"What changed her, if I may ask?" Mrs. Carson poured more tea for Nellie.

"It was Grandpa's death. Some toughs from the neighborhood tried to shake him down. It got carried away and he died. Gran saw the whole thing. That was long before I was born."

"How awful," Mrs. Carson exclaimed. "Did they ever catch the men?"

"Most of them are locked up or dead now, but not because of what they did to Grandpa. They were part of the local gang. Everyone knew the Hoxton boys did it, but there was no proof in this case."

"Hoxton?" Charles gulped his tea and looked at Elsie.

"Grandpa's shop was in their pitch." Nellie said innocently, her attention on the plate of biscuits as she chose her next.

"Did you hear about the business with Miss Baxter?" Elsie asked the girl. She wondered if she knew about Phyllis' connection to the Hoxton name.

"I heard she shot a detective and drowned. Mum says every cloud has a silver lining. I'm sorry those people died, but it's allowed Mum and me to be together here in Yorkshire." The girl beamed. "I'm so glad I decided to come."

"Before you knew that your mother would be joining you here, were you apprehensive about coming?"

"I was, but Mum tried to put my mind at ease."

"She certainly made a point of visiting you more often." Carson observed. "She was home the night Miss Baxter shot that detective, I believe?"

Elsie shot him a look that said he'd pushed too far.

Though Nellie looked confused at the question, she thought about it carefully. "This was a few days before Gran died and Mum knew she was coming to Yorkshire? Yes, I think she was home that night. She didn't eat dinner with us, said her job kept her late. She must've come in after we went to sleep, but she was there for breakfast, which was a nice surprise." Smiling again, Nellie rushed to reiterate her gratefulness for being at Downton. "I really do enjoy my work here. It's fun to cook when you have so many ingredients at your disposal." She was used to making a meal from scraps and cheap cuts of meat.

"Well, we're very glad to have you here, child." Elsie assured her. "Now, I think Mrs. Patmore wanted you to start on tonight's savory."

The girl bustled out of the butler's pantry leaving the butler and housekeeper with plenty to think about. Before they could discuss this new information, Molesley knocked on the door and leaned his head timidly into the pantry.

"Mr. Blake is here, Mr. Carson."

"What?" Carson looked as though Molesley had announced the arrival of Typhoid Mary.

"He's here to offer support during this difficult time for the family."

Elsie rolled her eyes, "He'll be expecting a room and we'll have to add him for lunch. Where _does_ Lady Mary find such 'helpful' men?"

"We'll talk about this later?" Charles confirmed as he made to follow Molesley.

"Most definitely." She nodded.

TBC…


	39. Pieces on the Move

"Mrs. Butte. How are you?"

"I am well, Mr. Blake, thank you."

They were in the upstairs hallway. Mr. Blake was coming out of his room. Mrs. Butte was carrying a freshly steamed dress up to Lady Grantham in Fontenoy.

"I am glad to hear it. I thought you might be very much affected by Miss O'Brien's death."

"It has caused a bit of trouble to have Her Ladyship in a guest room, but I am not one to complain, Mr. Blake."

"I think you are more a woman of action than of words, Mrs. Butte."

Lucille eyed him cautiously. What was he up to? "I am flattered that you even know my name, Mr. Blake."

"I make it my business to know everyone in this house; one is always in need of allies."

"I don't know how I could be of any use to you, Mr. Blake. Good day." Lucille turned, trying to extract herself from the uncomfortable conversation.

He put a hand on her arm to stop her from leaving. "We'll find a way for you to be of use, Mrs. Butte. Or I'll tell the police what I saw at the garden party." He said smoothly.

Lucille stopped cold. Hoping that he was bluffing, she played it cool. "I should think you are obligated to tell the police anything you think might be helpful."

"Perhaps, but this information might be more helpful to me, so the police can wait."

"What is it that you think you saw?"

"I know I saw you and Miss O'Brien leaving the garden. She was crying and you were helping her back to the house."

_Damn!_ Lucille thought. "We can't talk here. The police are still around."

"Let's meet at the pig barn after dinner."

"It will need to be later than that. I can't be missed at servant's dinner and then I must prepare Her Ladyship for bed. Let's say ten thirty."

"Done."

With the rendezvous set, they both went on their way. Charles Blake was very satisfied with things. He was an opportunist, after all. He'd been patient and had cultivated a relationship with that ice queen Mary after seeing the healthy finances of the estate. Charles was tired of waiting for Uncle Severus to die. In the pursuit of her estate, Charles had let her slop mud on his face, he'd held her brat of a child while it was crying and he'd followed her around London like a fool for the Season. It was time to make the woman make a choice. He felt confident in his position, but would be more confident if he had someone on the inside of the house feeding him information.

Lucille continued on to Fontenoy to think of her options. Her initial panic was slowly giving way to that cool calm that protected her. _Don't worry, love. This is all meant to be._

-00-

"What do you mean, Mr. Carson?"

"You should look more closely at the connection to the Hoxton gang, Detective. That's what I think."

"You can't save us the trouble and tell us what we'll find?"

"I'm afraid not. If I learn more, I'll tell you." It was the closest Carson could come to lying.

Detective Alexander was beginning to lose his patience. "Mr. Carson, need I remind you that I am the policeman here?"

"I am aware of that, Detective."

"Then why do you insist on conducting your own investigation?"

"I don't think that's what I'm doing. I'm only observing things and passing them on to you. I get the feeling the Hoxton gang angle has not been fully explored."

"I already have the London police reviewing their findings for Thomas' suicide."

"Alleged suicide." Carson reminded him.

"Yes, alleged suicide." The detective rolled his eyes. "Speaking of which, we had a very interesting finding in regards to Miss O'Brien's _alleged _suicide."

"Oh?"

"The splatter pattern in the tub would indicate that the water was running when she slashed her wrist."

"She cut her wrist?" Carson winced at the gory detail.

"Does that shock you?"

"Yes. For some reason, I assumed that she'd poisoned herself." Carson admitted.

"Why would she poison herself in a bathtub?"

"Because the tub has a significance."

"Which is?"

"Rather personal."

"I can be discreet, Mr. Carson."

"Lady Grantham fell in that bathroom, getting out of that tub. She was pregnant at the time. She miscarried. Some have speculated that Miss O'Brien purposefully left soap on the floor in hopes Her Ladyship would slip. But it isn't generally known."

"Who else would know?"

"Thomas told Mr. Bates, who told Mrs. Bates, who told Lady Mary and myself and Mrs. Carson. I don't know if Thomas ever told anyone else or if Miss O'Brien ever told anyone but Thomas."

"That's very interesting."

"Back to what you were saying, Detective. What does it mean that the water was running?" Carson wanted very much to know.

"It means someone turned the water _off_." Detective Alexander said grandly. "Either someone was there when her wrist was cut or someone found her afterwards. Judging by the amount of water in the tub, it would have been very soon afterwards."

"So it wasn't suicide?"

"Possibly not. At the very least, there is someone who knows more than they are saying." The detective stared meaningfully at Carson. " I need you to be honest with me, Mr. Carson. I know you must suspect someone. Who is it?"

"It's too soon to say, detective. We would not want to falsely accuse someone or to scare off our suspect."

"I don't _have_ a suspect! That's the bloody point, Mr. Carson."

"I am sorry, Detective. If you can prove that Thomas' alleged suicide was, in fact, murder then you can tie all the crimes together. It would give you a…what do they call it? Modus operandi?"

"You seem to know an awful lot about this, Mr. Carson."

"I read a lot." Carson shrugged. In his theatre days Grigg had given Carson such a hard time about reading respectable literatrure that he had been forced to read a lot of the Penny Dreadful rags. Some of them were actually well written, he thought.

The detective seemed to accept this, but he looked at the butler with new interest. Was this man playing him? Was this all an act? Was Carson counting on his impeccable reputation to keep him above suspicion? Detective Alexander wanted to believe this apparently harmless man, but there were new questions in this case every day. The detective found himself led back to the butler repeatedly rather than away.

-00-

"I think we should tell Mr. Molesley, love."

"Miss Baxter asked us not to, Charles. She has a point about him not being able to keep her secret."

"I know he's a bit inept at times, but he will move Heaven and earth to help her. I don't like leaving Mrs. Butte loose in the house when we know what we know. It was all I could do not to tell the police."

"Mrs. Butte isn't going to make a move with the police hanging about. We have time to gather more information. If we just accuse her now, the police will laugh it off and we'll have tipped our hand."

Reluctantly Carson agreed. "But we should still tell Mr. Molesley."

"I think you may be right, but I won't betray Miss Baxter's confidence. We can speak to her when we go home to change."

-00-

"Mr. Molesley, I was wondering if you would like to have a drink with me tonight?" Mr. Carson asked as Mr. Molesley stood at the long mirror pulling on his gloves.

"What?" The footman stammered. "In your pantry?"

"No, in our cottage. Mrs. Carson was just pointing out that we've not had many visitors come to our home. She suggested I should invite you for a casual drink. She's got a sewing project on and I think I'm beginning to annoy her with my hanging about and looking over her shoulder."

"Um, sure, that…that would be nice."

"Good. The family and Mr. Blake are gathered in the salon, service will commence in five minutes."

-00-

Elsie had claimed to be ill and had gone home early to take dinner to Miss Baxter. It was not necessary to steal anything as Mrs. Patmore sent her home with enough food to feed an army.

"Feed a cold, Mrs. Carson." The cook advised.

"It's just a headache, it's not a cold." Elsie could not help protesting.

"Feed that too." Beryl shrugged. "Why not?"

Elsie thanked her friend and hurried home with her basket of goodies. She and Miss Baxter enjoyed a quick meal. Elsie could see how anxious Miss Baxter was to see Mr. Molesley. It was endearing to see, even under these stressful circumstances. Elsie had convinced Miss Baxter to reveal herself to Mr. Molesley. She hoped she had done the right thing.

"I can't get over the fact that Mrs. Butte's father was killed by my family. I feel so badly."

"It's not as though you helped, Miss Baxter. Mrs. Butte's vengeance was misplaced."

"Was it? I knew what they were, I knew what they did. Did I turn them in and promise to testify? No. I ran."

"For your own safety. One should not feel guilty for failing to be a hero. Heroes are rare." She did not add that heroes often ended up dead.

Just before ten o'clock Elsie was surprised to hear a knock at the door. She opened it cautiously. Mark, a young hall boy stood there with a frightened look on his face. He did not like being out after dark so near the place Lady Flintshire had been killed. "A note for you, Mrs. Carson."

He all but threw the paper at her and ran off.

Elsie closed the door and opened the note. She did not recognize the handwriting, but it looked masculine. She assumed it was from Mr. Blake.

_'Meet me at the pig barn at 10:30. Come alone. Tell no one, not even your husband. You may learn something to your advantage._

_A friend.'_

TBC...

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><p><strong>AN Things are heating up now! **

**I know I'm seriously changing Blake's character, but I just can't stand the actor, so there ya' go. As has been pointed out to me, this is my therapy session where I can off anyone whom I don't like. **

**Next chapter…Ethel and Mr. Tufton fight to the death in a pit of vipers. **


	40. Meeting at the Barn

Ten thirty had come and gone. Elsie had waited as long as she could for Charles to come home. She thought about going up to the house to fetch him, but she did not want to raise anyone's suspicions. Phyllis was insistent that Elsie not go at all.

"Or at least let me come with you."

"How do we explain your being alive to whomever wrote this note?"

"I thought you said it was Mr. Blake?"

"That seems the most likely person, but I honestly don't know. If that fool boy hadn't run off, I'd have asked him."

"You don't have to go. You shouldn't go." Phyllis said again.

"What if someone else suspects Mrs. Butte and wants to help us?"

"They would have told the police."

"We didn't."

Miss Baxter found that she could not argue with that. "If their intentions are pure, they would not have told you to tell no one."

"We can't miss this opportunity."

"Then we're going together." Phyllis insisted again.

"No. You have to tell Mr. Carson what is going on. He'll be very confused when he gets here and no one is here. I don't dare leave a note; anyone might find it." She pulled a cloak out of the closet and swept it over her shoulders. It hid her silhouette well. "I promise to be careful. I won't even reveal myself to this person if I don't think it's safe. Send Mr. Carson along as quickly as you can."

She swept out the door before Miss Baxter could stop her.

-00-

Charles Blake was beyond annoyed. He'd been waiting in this stinking pig sty for over a quarter of an hour. Why did he pick this place of all places? The truth was it was the first place he could think of. He had wanted to sound confident, like he knew Downton like the back of his hand. Now, he was sitting in the middle of a smelly barn waiting for Mrs. Butte.

Something skittered in the depths of the barn. The pigs took no notice, so Charles ignored it too. The air was still and humid. Charles was becoming rather warm. He yawned and continued to wait. Perhaps Lady Grantham was taking longer than Mrs. Butte had anticipated.

He thought again about his plan. He had no doubt that the little woman had helped her friend get away with murder. Now, with Miss O'Brien's death, there was no reason for her to protect her friend, but she could still find herself in trouble with the police and the family. Mr. Blake thought he could threaten to tell the police that Mrs. Butte had withheld information regarding Lady Flintshire's death. To avoid exposure, she would feed him inside information about Lady Mary and put in a good word for him with Lady Grantham. She might even be able to sow some seeds of doubt regarding his rival, Gillingham.

With these thoughts occupying him, Blake continued to ignore the pests in the barn.

-00-

Her eyes adjusted easily to the dark night, covered in shadow, she moved close to the ground. Dormant, feral instincts led her to the darkest and most silent approach to the barn. Adrenaline and anticipation heightened her senses. She could smell the dry grass beneath her feet. She heard the rustle of an owl's wings over her head just before she heard the squeak of a mouse that had not heard its predator in time. Elsie Carson had to admit, this was exhilarating.

She could hear and smell the barn before she could see it. The pigs were asleep, but they were not silent. Their nocturnal snorts sounded like a group of drunks sleeping off last night's binge. She did not step into the clearing, but skirted the open ground in favor of the cover of the underbrush until she could see into the barn. She kept well hidden, but one pair of eyes saw her.

-00-

Lucille smiled to see his discomfort and frustration. Men could be so impatient. They were impulsive and rash where women had an innate capacity to be careful and deliberate. She could wait until everything was in place. She was still hopeful that Mrs. Carson would show up, but her plan did not depend upon it. She needed to rid herself of Blake. If she could implicate Mrs. Carson in the process? All the better.

No one had missed Lucille when she had snuck down to the barn before tea and prepared her trap for her quarry. She'd made a show of going up to bed early and she had encountered no one as she snuck through the house and out the front door. The key in her pocket would ensure she could get in again even if she had to wait until early in the morning to sneak back in.

Though she was prepared to wait all night, Lucille was happy to see the movement in the trees opposite the barn entrance. If she was lucky, she would catch a pair of hare in her snare.

-00-

_Tonight of all nights! _Carson thought. How a bottle of wine had shattered on his desk was a complete mystery. When he'd left his office before dinner, he had laid out the next evening's selections, unsure of what his schedule might be with the police around. Upon returning after Lord Grantham and Mr. Blake had retired, he'd found his desk drowned in Madeira.

He inspected the bottle but could not fathom how he had missed what must have been a hairline fracture along the bottom of the bottle. The glass had broken cleanly around the base of the bottle and the contents had drained onto his desk while the bottle remained upright.

"We can have that drink another night." Mr. Molesley offered as he helped Carson wipe up the wine. The diary and blotter would need to be replaced, but most of the other items would be fine once they were wiped down.

"Nonsense, Mr. Molesley, I'd say we need a drink even more now." Charles tried to sound enthusiastic when he really felt frustrated. He could not let this set back stop them from bringing Molesley in on the secret about Miss Baxter. They cleaned quickly, but it was well past ten thirty when Carson and Molesley finally left the Abbey.

Joseph was confused. Mr. Carson had invited him for a drink so that he would have someone to talk to while Mrs. Carson was sewing, but Mr. Carson didn't say a word to him on their walk to the cottage. He was starting to fear that Mr. Carson wanted to talk to him about something very serious. Perhaps they had decided to let him go. By the time they reached the Carson's cottage, Molesley was sweating nervously.

Charles knew something was off the second he opened the door. There was no kettle of tea waiting, Elsie was not sitting beside the fireplace knitting and the house was eerily quiet.

"Hello?" He called. "She must be upstairs, let me go check. Help yourself to the port, Mr. Molesely."

He found Miss Baxter in the upstairs hall, waving a note at him. "She's gone to meet him." She whispered hoarsely.

"Who?" Carson read the note quickly, his eyes going wide with fear. "And you let her go? When was this?"

"Ten minutes ago."

"Is everything alright?" Molesley called up the stairs. He heard unhappy voices and was hoping for an excuse to leave. "I can go if this is a bad time."

"Bloody hell!" Carson cursed as he ran down the stairs. He ran out the front door, but just before leaving, he turned and pointed deliberately at a shocked Mr. Molesley. "You! Stay here until I get back!"

Charles ran through the night, his normally silent and confident steps had become a noisy and desperate sprint. What was she thinking? Why hadn't she sent for him? Mad thoughts and fearful images ran through his mind. Mrs. Butte was obviously insane. She was capable of anything. How could Elsie have been so stupid?

Carson's breath came painfully as he ran. The pigs were over a mile from their cottage. Time was of the essence, there was no time for stealth or mystery. The barn was in sight now. Thinking of nothing but Elsie, he rounded the corner and stopped in the mouth of the barn. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the horrible sight he found.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN A special shout out to deeedeee for catching several instances where I've transposed Butte and Baxter. All these B names are killing me, especially if I'm typing at 1am. If you see any glaring typos, PLEASE PM me, I HATE typos with the heat of a thousand suns and I don't want them in my stories.**

**Oh, yeah, and we are definitely approaching the end game. **


	41. Together Again and Torn Apart

**AN/ Rather than reply to comments, I rushed through this update. This is the second of the day! Just because you asked nicely. Be careful what you wish for...**

**WARNING: Gory, maiming and death will be described after the break. But first, some sweetness…**

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><p>Joseph Molesley was not sure what to do. He had been ordered to wait here, in the Carson's cottage while his hosts were out running around the grounds. He sipped tentatively on the port he had poured before Mr. Carson had stormed out of the house. Why was he here? So many possibilities occurred to Molesley, most of them negative.<p>

Joseph knew Mr. Carson didn't respect him. It was clear that the butler found Molesley to be a disappointment, an affront to the profession of butler. By the time Carson was Molesley's age, he'd been a respectable butler for years. All Molesley could boast was being the valet to an heir who had never inherited.

Of course, things had changed recently. Miss Baxter's quiet faith in his abilities had brought an improvement in his work and demeanor. Even her death had helped him. It had given him a gravitas worthy of a butler in any of the great houses. He sighed as he thought of her. If only they'd found her sooner. He blamed himself for waiting for the police. He should have gone on without them, but Mr. Carson had insisted that they call the authorities before they went rushing after her.

Joseph went to pour another glass of port, but stopped when he thought he heard a noise. It was a soft, shuffling noise and it was coming from upstairs. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"H-hello?" He whispered in a tiny voice. "Is there someone there?"

Phyllis clutched her hands painfully in front of her. She was in torment. She was worried about Mr. and Mrs. Carson, but that was secondary to the feelings that had been growing in her since she first heard his voice calling up to Mr. Carson. Now he was speaking to her. He didn't know it, but he was. What would he do if she went down to him now? Phyllis had been planning to let Mrs. Carson explain things before she revealed herself. That seemed unlikely to happen any time soon. Wanting to see him, to be seen by him, Phyllis made a decision. She answered his call.

"Yes. There is someone here." Her voice was neither loud nor soft.

She heard a glass break and she heard him yelp. _You're going mad, man!_ Joseph thought, but then maybe he'd been right all along. That voice had sounded like… "Phyllis?"

He stood at the bottom of the stairs gazing up as she stepped into view. He lost sight of her immediately behind the tears that erupted from his eyes. Phyllis practically threw herself down the stairs to get to him. She landed against him forcefully and they staggered back into the main room. She was crying too and kissing his face as he tried to pull back and see her properly. "Joseph, my love, my love…"

He gave up trying to look at her and began kissing her in return, matching her passion as she matched his tears. "Phyllis, my beautiful creature…I hoped, but I couldn't believe, I couldn't believe." He ran his hands up and down her body, proving to himself that she was flesh and blood, not yet another cruel imagining of his broken mind.

Between kisses, she tried to explain. "I fell, but I survived…I wanted to reach you…but I didn't dare."

"It doesn't matter, my dearest…you're here…nothing else matters…we'll run away…we'll move to America…anything."

Then words were useless. They were too busy touching, kissing and reassuring each other. They ended up entwined on the sofa. Their lips were raw and bruised, their cheeks were wet with tears and their arms ached from the effort to pull the other closer.

Phyllis knew there was something she should be concerned about, but as she looked down at him, pinned beneath her, his hands in her hair, his eyes dilated with desire, she could not think clearly. She dove back into his love. They could have kissed like that for days if they had not been interrupted by Mrs. Carson bursting into the cottage and diving for the phone.

She barely spared a look in their direction as she picked up the phone. "Mrs. Glen! This is Mrs. Carson at Downton Abbey! I need to speak to the police at once! Ripon. Thank you." She jumped from foot to foot as the operator in Thirsk connected her to the Ripon police station. Now she saw Molesley and gestured to him wildly.

"Mr. Molesley, go to the house. Wake His Lordship and send the other footmen down to the pig barn! Yes?" Someone at the station had finally answered. Molesley sprinted out the door. "There's been another death at Downton Abbey, send men. And call Detective Alexander at once! At the pig barn…"

She laid out the facts as calmly as she possibly could. Finally, she hung up and gripped the table before her, willing strength and calm to return to her. "Miss Baxter, don't leave the guest room. I don't know what is going to happen." She brought a hand to her forehead and Phyllis saw the blood there.

"Are you hurt?" The younger woman stepped forward to help. Elsie waved her off.

"No. It's not my blood."

-00-

**WEAK STOMACHS STOP HERE- YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED**

Charles Blake was finally done waiting. This was ridiculous. That blasted little woman was probably already fast asleep, having laughed herself to sleep thinking of him waiting out here for her. She would regret making a fool of him. He stood up, picked up his lantern and marched towards the wide barn doors.

To be fair, one does not expect to encounter a tripwire in a pig barn, especially across an entrance where one has trod less than an hour before. If Blake had paid any heed to the noises in the barn, he might have heard Mrs. Butte tightening the trip wire and connecting it to the ring that was connected to the pin. Just in case, Lucille stood beside the pin, ready to trip it herself when the time was right.

Everything Lucille had needed for her trap had been conveniently available in the barn, which was a storage barn for all kinds of farm equipment. The small loft gave her access to the rafters to run the ropes. The only difficulty had been hoisting the heavy weights high enough to ensure that their force would be sufficient at the point of impact. Judging by the results, she had definitely lifted them high enough.

As Blake's shin hit the taught wire, the pin was pulled free, releasing four deadly pendulums. They fell silently from the rafters in four sweeping arches of death. Two came from each side of the doors ensuring that anyone within two feet of the trip wire would be caught in their range. Hay hooks, pitchforks, scythes and even a pick ax had been tied to the weights of the pendulums. The weights were made of any heavy metal Lucille could find, all tied in feed sacks.

As the weights came together Charles Blake disappeared in a clash of metal and a spray of blood. Lucille winced. Even by her standards, that was pretty gruesome. She had overestimated the amount of weight needed. The only word that occurred to her was overkill.

Elsie had tried to cry out to warn the poor man, but she had almost as little warning as he did. She saw the ends of the pendulums sweep towards Blake like the heads of medieval flails a split second before the terrible impact. Elsie fainted in shock at the sight.

Lucille was about to emerge from her hiding place just as Carson rounded the corner.

Charles Carson fought to retain consciousness. A wave of nausea swept over him as he looked at the grotesque puppet hanging before him. Mr. Blake was unrecognizable. Charles panicked for a second, fearing for Elsie's life before he realized that the feet were wearing men's shoes. Three of the four weights had found their target. The fourth still swung pendulously behind the grisly scene.

One weight had buried a scythe into Blake's chest, holding him up so that he dangled like a limp marionette. The other flails had done damage that would have been lethal on their own, but was now merely a defilement of the body. An ice hook held his nearly severed arm up before his face; his last defensive act caught in bloody tableau.

Unable to think clearly in the presence of this atrocity, Carson moved towards the victim. There was no rational reason to think Blake had survived, but Carson was beyond rational thought. He put out a hand to stop the swinging of the front three flails and the body. He was trying unsuccessfully to disentangle the body from the deadly implements when Elsie awoke.

"Charles!" She croaked weakly.

"Elsie!" He ran to her where she lay in the underbrush. "Did you see what…?"

"Poor Mr. Blake!" She buried her face in her hands, unable to look towards the barn.

The pigs were beginning to stir now, woken from their slumber by the crash of metal and the yelling of the butler and housekeeper. The smell of blood in the air agitated them. A large boar began pushing against the pen gate. Soon, he was joined by others. Charles remembered hearing that pigs were carnivorous and began to worry about the security of the body.

"Can you go for help? I'll stay here with Mr. Blake."

"Is it safe for you to stay here?"

"Mrs. Butte isn't going to come after me. Look at all the preparation she went to for little Mr. Blake."

"She's used a gun in the past." Elsie reminded him.

"Is she still around?"

"I never saw her."

"Just run to the cottage. Call for the police and lock yourself in."

Elsie nodded as he helped her to her feet. She swayed for a second but soon recovered. She barely had time to recognize that his white tie and vest were red with blood. Neither of them had thought Mrs. Butte capable of such an act. Neither of them would ever have thought anyone capable.

Elsie ran off for the cottage. Charles watched her going, keeping an eye out for any figure that might make to follow. Lucille remained in the dark shadow of the barn. She could not hear what the Carson's said to each other. She still had no idea that they suspected her. This was not what she'd hoped for. This was more likely to implicate Mr. Carson than Mrs. Carson. Lucille forced her breathing to calm. She had no choice but to follow wherever Providence would guide her.

When Charles' attention returned to the body and the pigs she took the opportunity to slip out the back of the barn through a board she had loosened beforehand. She knew she needed to get back to her room as soon as possible. The police would be crawling everywhere soon. It would not do to be caught out of the house.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN There are probably a bunch of typos in this because I wrote it quickly and don't really wish to reread it. I went a little far here. I don't dislike Blake THAT much, but Lucille is starting to make mistakes as her psychosis ramps up. She really over did his here. I blame her.**


	42. Dr Noose on the Loose

**AN/ While I craft the next chapter, here is a poetic interlude brought to you by Dr. Noose (a pseudonym I am applying to the collective mind responsible for this poem- ie chelsie fan and myself.) Chelsie fan's contribution is in italics and mine is just normal. (Her stuff's better than mine and, though I am a bit jealous, this was too good not to share...) **

**ENJOY...**

* * *

><p>Mrs. Butte loves to shoot,<br>If you see her with a gun,  
>I recommend you start to run,<br>There are other ways she likes to kill,  
>Pay close attention if you will.<p>

_A blow to head with frying pan!_  
><em>A daring move, a brilliant plan!<em>  
><em>And what about a tight garrote?<em>  
><em>I must admit, I'd rather not!<em>  
><em>And to his leg, just one quick slice -<em>  
><em>Enough to put Carlisle on ice.<em>  
><em>And strangle Edna with her coat.<em>  
><em>Don't get cocky, Lu. Don't gloat!<em>  
><em>And then into the vat of lye?<em>  
><em>A most unpleasant way to die!<em>  
><em>And poison off that awful Chuck!<em>  
><em>Goodbye to him! Who gives a fuck?<em>  
><em>And Thomas from the rafters swung.<em>  
><em>His lifeless body limply hung.<em>

_And poor, inept Detective Vance!_  
><em>That idjit never stood a chance!<em>  
><em>Then Lady Flintshire, Anna's hose.<em>  
><em>And blame O'Brien. No one knows!<em>  
><em>Now Sarah gets it in the bath.<em>  
><em>There's no escaping Lucy's wrath.<em>  
><em>And last we come to Charles Blake,<em>  
><em>Who met his death with scythe and rake!<em>

_And will that end our bloody tale?_  
><em>My guess will be of no avail.<em>  
><em>The Doctor has the final say.<em>  
><em>And Dr. Noose will have her way!<em>

She'll take a life with her knife,  
>She would kill them in a barn with a yarn.<br>She would kill them with an ax, playing jacks.  
>She would kill them here or there,<br>She would kill them anywhere,  
>I do not like her, Sam I Am,<br>And do not eat green eggs and ham,  
>Chances are, she poisoned 'em.<p>

* * *

><p>POETIC INTERLUDE CONCLUDED<p>

* * *

><p><strong>AN It was fun to collaborate with chelsie fan again. I hope y'all enjoyed it as much as we did.**

**PS, I'm still thinking about adding our viper pit fight in, or some way to off Tufton and Ethel and several others.\**

**PPS MonaLove, I am still working on that little superhero adventure we discussed. **


	43. After Blake

**AN/For those with weak stomachs who skipped the end of chapter 40; Mr. Blake died a gruesome death which Elsie witnessed and Charles discovered almost immediately after it happened. Charles is covered with blood, Elsie and Miss Baxter are locked in the Carson's cottages, and Mr. Molesley (who knows Phyllis is alive, BTW) went for help from the house.**

* * *

><p>"Don't come any closer, My Lord." Carson called out. "You don't want to see this."<p>

Lord Grantham began to protest, but then he saw the sickly look on young Trevor's face. Robert decided to trust his butler.

"If you could, My Lord, the police should be arriving soon. Mr. Molesley could see them to the barn, if that meets your approval.

"Certainly, Carson."

Carson had managed to calm the pigs by feeding them some of the feed from the barn. When the footmen arrived, he had positioned them in a way to hold a perimeter around the scene and had ordered more lighting brought down from the house. As he had calmed down, Carson realized that he should not have touched anything. Though he felt awful leaving Mr. Blake hanging there, it was best to wait for the police to come.

Carson was mindful off the blood down the front of his shirt and vest. It had grown sticky in the hot night and flies were being drawn to him. He wanted to go home and wash, but he wanted to be here when the police arrived.

Mrs. Carson had locked Miss Baxter into the cottage and gone up to the Abbey. She wanted to call all the staff down so she could catch Mrs. Butte out, but it was unnecessary. Mr. Molesley had woken most of the servants with his cries for the other footmen. Mrs. Patmore had tried to calm everyone down, but had given up and had instead begun brewing several pots of tea. Elsie was shocked to see a very sleepy looking and perplexed Mrs. Butte talking quietly in the corner with Nellie and Madge.

Elsie had heard the word pathological before. Now, she understood what it meant. The woman was as cool as a cucumber. Elsie had to force herself not to stare. It would not help matters if Mrs. Butte knew she was suspected. Now that Elsie had seen with her own eyes what this woman was capable of, she would be even more cautious.

The Ripon police finally arrived almost an hour after being called. They arrived in three cars. Lord Grantham greeted them at the house and accompanied them down to the barn.

Carson spoke quietly with the sergeant in charge as the other police scoured the scene and finally lowered Mr. Blake down.

"And why were you here again?"

"Someone wrote a note for me to come down and meet them."

"Someone? You don't know who?"

"No." Carson handed the officer the letter. Thankfully, it had not been addressed. Carson was not about to let Elsie fall under suspicion. "I did not recognize the handwriting, so I assumed it was Mr. Blake."

"And are you in the habit of coming out to visit strangers in the night?"

"Certainly not!" Carson huffed.

"And he was dead when you got here?"

"Yes. I don't know for how long. I didn't hear anything when I came up, but the pendulums were still swinging when I found him."

"And you needed to get closer to tell he wasn't alive?" The sergeant had seen the body. Only Dr. Frankenstein would have tried to save that one.

"I was in shock, as you can imagine. I think I should speak to Detective Alexander."

"That can be arranged. He'll be waiting for you in Ripon."

"You intend to take me in? Tonight?"

"I have a dead man and I have a man covered in his blood. Even if you are not under arrest, I'm pretty sure the Detective will wish to speak to you."

"Fine. The sooner, the better." Charles agreed. "Might I go home to change my clothes?"

"We'll get you a clean shirt. The Detective will want to see your clothing."

"Very well. Mr. Molesley, would you please tell Mrs. Carson I have gone to Ripon to speak to Detective Alexander?"

"Uh, sure. I'll do that Mr. Carson." He wasn't sure how, but Molesley knew this had something to do with Phyllis hiding out in the Carson's cottage. He would help in whatever way he could.

Carson walked side by side with the policemen to the car. It almost looked as though Charles were taking the sergeant into custody.

-00-

Mr. Molesley delivered his message and Mrs. Carson sent the rest of the staff back to bed, still trying not to let her eyes dwell too long on Mrs. Butte. Elsie had noticed a slight tick to the smaller woman's mouth when it was announced that Mr. Carson had been taken to Ripon with the police.

"Is there anything we can do?" Anna offered. She and Mr. Bates had been recalled from their cottage.

"Not tonight. Make sure Madge and Nellie are okay. Madge is very sensitive to these events."

It seemed the safest course of action to bring everyone into the house, since seeing what Mrs. Butte was capable of. Thankfully, the police were still processing Miss O'Brien's things so Elsie did not have to find an excuse for Anna to share with the two young maids rather than a suspected killer.

The only drawback to bringing everyone to the Abbey was that Elsie could not return to her own home to speak to Miss Baxter. She just had to trust that Phyllis would lay low for the time being. Elsie sat up the rest of the night listening at her door for any sounds in the women's corridor.

-00-

"You could have let him get a clean change of clothes, Sergeant." Detective Alexander shook his head in disbelief. They had made Mr. Carson ride all the way from Downton in his blood-soaked uniform. "Klein and Grady have instructions to call before they leave Downton. Tell them to bring a clean set of clothing for Mr. Carson."

He turned back to the butler who was sitting in his office. They'd finally let him wash up and he'd been provided with a constable's coat that was two sizes too small.

"I apologize, Mr. Carson. My men were a little over zealous."

"It's alright, Detective. I was anxious to speak to you."

"And I you. I understand Mr. Blake died quite brutally."

"I doubt I'll ever be able to erase that image from my mind; poor devil. I never thought her capable…"

"Her? Does this mean you're ready to talk to me about whom you suspect?"

"Yes, but first, I wonder, did you look more closely into the Hoxton gang?"

"Funny you should mention them. It turns out that several of their members were granted early release based on some dodgy legal shenanigans."

"Released? When?"

"After Miss Baxter shot Detective Vance. I've spoken to the Detective who deals with gangs in that part of London. He says the Hoxton gang are still very active and they are worried that things will escalate with the release of so many of their members at once."

"Was Miss Baxter's husband among those released?"

"Yes."

"Is this detective keeping a close eye on them?"

"As close as he can. He did say that they think several of the members, including Miss Baxter's husband and uncle, are not currently in London."

"Could they have come to Downton looking for her?"

"That seems unlikely, as she's dead."

"But no body was found. One of our footmen is convinced she survived. He won't believe otherwise until a body is found. Might they not think the same thing?"

"Perhaps." Detective Alexander shrugged. Anything was possible with this case. He did not like the idea of members of a London gang running around in his jurisdiction. "I've been forthcoming with you, Mr. Carson. Now it's your turn."

"Yes, Detective. Thank you for your patience, it's only that my suspect will seem incredibly unlikely to you and the Hoxton gang figure into it." Charles shifted uncomfortably in the tight-fitting uniform. "Though they were never caught, I have reason to believe that the Hoxton gang were responsible for the death of Mrs. Butte's father. I looked through her employment records and discovered that his name is Henry Grovesner.

"According to Mrs. Butte's daughter, Nellie, the gang killed Mr. Grovesner and Mrs. Grovesner witnessed it. It made her nearly catatonic. Since that day, her life was reduced to reading about gruesome crimes in newspapers and penny dreadful publications. She read them to her granddaughter and I imagine she read them to her daughter."

"What's your point? You aren't suggesting that Mrs. Butte is the killer, are you?"

"That is precisely what I am suggesting."

TBC...

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><p><strong>AN I am resisting celebrating Bastille Day by having Lucille breakout her homemade guillotine and dispatching all of the nobility upstairs. That would leave all the servants, Tom and Isobel.**


	44. An Interesting Theory

Over the next few hours, Carson and Detective Alexander reexamined every strange death or disappearance since Ivy's. They discussed motives and opportunities and alibis. Carson withheld only two facts. He did not reveal that Miss Baxter was still alive and he did not reveal that Elsie had been at the barn when Mr. Blake was killed.

The detective was impressed by Carson's observational talents but was still not convinced that Mrs. Butte was involved, despite her lack of alibi's on most of the occasions, especially the night Detective Vance was killed. He still suspected that the butler was not telling him the full truth.

They were discussing Mr. Blake's terrible death as the sun began to rise.

"It's odd, you see."

"Odd?"

"He obviously tripped the wire coming _out_ of the barn."

"So?"

"So, whoever set this trap had to have been there when he arrived, even if they weren't necessarily there when he was killed."

"I wasn't there when he arrived or when he was killed. I was at the house until less than ten minutes before I got here. Mr. Molesley was with me until I left the house. Mrs. Butte could have set the trap after Mr. Blake arrived and then snuck back to the house before he was killed."

"That's an interesting theory, Mr. Carson." A voice said from the doorway.

"Sergeant Norris, you made good time." Detective Alexander got up to greet the arriving officer. "Thank you for coming all the way from London."

"It's my pleasure, Detective Alexander." But the Sergeant did not look pleased. His demeanor was all business. "Have you read this note, Mr. Carson?" He held up the letter Carson had given the Yorkshire Sergeant.

"Of course."

"And you, Detective?"

"No."

Norris opened the paper slowly. "It says 'Tell no one, not even your husband.' Do you have a husband, Mr. Carson?"

"No." Carson admitted grudgingly. _Fool! _ He chastised himself.

In his haste, he had not remembered the exact wording of the note. Still, he would not betray Elsie. "It was meant for Mrs. Carson, but I intercepted it. It was on her desk. She had already gone home and I checked her office for anything she might have missed."

"And you read her correspondence without asking her?"

"I didn't know what it was, so I read it."

"And when did Mrs. Carson read it?"

"She didn't." Carson lied.

"Then why was she at the barn?"

"She wasn't." Carson dug further.

"This constable tells a different story." Norris pulled a nervous and tired looking Klein into the office.

"We found this in the bushes opposite the barn." He held up a brooch Carson recognized. "It looks like someone was hid there."

"I recognize that brooch from interviews in London. It belongs to Mrs. Carson, does it not?"

"It does."

"Now, do you wish to amend your statement?" Norris asked, triumphantly.

"She was there, but she saw nothing of interest." Carson hastened to add. "She said Mr. Blake was there when she arrived, just after a quarter to. He seemed frustrated at waiting and got up to leave. That's when the trap was sprung and he was killed."

"So she was there when the trap was sprung?" Detective Alexander scowled at Mr. Carson.

"Yes, and the sight of it made her faint, but that shouldn't matter. The killer had no reason to be at the barn, that was the whole point of the trap, I should think."

"As I said before, the killer would have had to be at the barn sometime after Mr. Blake arrived." Alexander reminded him.

"You cannot be suggesting that my wife is capable of this?"

"But you expect us to believe Mrs. Butte is?" The detective pointed out. "Both are unlikely, but we have actual proof that your wife was there."

"The connection to the Hoxton gang…"

"…Wasn't discovered until after the disappearances began."

"Mrs. Carson and I were in Blackpool when this sorry business started."

"I've talked to the hotel you gave as your alibi." Sergeant Norris began.

"And?"

"And they don't remember seeing you leave your room for days at a time."

"We were on our wedding trip, Sergeant." Carson reminded him, turning red with anger and a little embarrassment. "We had meals delivered to the room. _Somebody_ ate that food."

"Still, it isn't outside the realm of possibility that you could leave Mrs. Carson in Blackpool to create the illusion of a happy, honeymooning couple while you returned to London."

"It wasn't an _illusion_, Sergeant." Carson growled.

"Or, you could have delegated the dirty work to others." Norris continued. "Delegating is what butlers do, after all."

"You are suggesting a conspiracy now?" Detective Alexander felt he had to jump in as the voice of reason. "Whom exactly do you suspect?"

"Who would be interested in protecting the family name? Mr. Bates for one." The London policeman offered. "And that Mr. Molesley would do anything you told him."

"I think Mr. Bates has faced enough false accusations for one lifetime. Leave the man out of it." Carson replied, his indignation making him rash and irritable. It did not help that he was hungry and had not slept in over twenty four hours. "And, if you think Mr. Molesley is capable of killing anyone, you are in the wrong profession, Sergeant."

"Now, now, we're all on edge because of what's happened." Detective Alexander decided it was time to retake control of the conversation. "Let's take a break for some breakfast and start again in an hour. I believe Klein has brought you some clothes."

"Am I under arrest, Detective?" Carson demanded.

"No, but I would take it as a sign of good faith if you would stay and continue to talk to me. You know as much about these matters as anyone."

"May I call Downton? I'd like to speak to my wife."

"So you can warn her that we're on to you? I don't think so." Norris muttered darkly.

"If you must know, I want them to know about Miss Baxter's family potentially being in Yorkshire." Carson shot at the Sergeant.

"I'll inform them of that myself." Detective Alexander promised.

-00-

Breakfast the next morning was exactly the somber and serious occasion that Charles always insisted it should be. It made Elsie miss him even more. The police had asked her to send him fresh clothes with the departing police. More officers had been sent to relieve the night crew. The longer Charles was gone, the more anxious Elsie became.

Detective Alexander had called and spoken to her, his voice kindly, but professional. He explained that Mr. Carson's continued presence was required in Ripon. He also warned her about the Hoxton gang being in Yorkshire. She needed to tell Miss Baxter as soon as possible.

"Mr. Molesley, would you please accompany me to my cottage? There are some things I need and I think it is safest if no one goes anywhere alone." She looked down the table at him, trying to make her request nonchalant.

"Certainly, Mrs. Carson, I'd be glad to help."

Elsie resisted the urge to scowl at him. His enthusiasm was out of proportion to the task, but no one seemed to notice. After breakfast, they left the Abbey together. Elsie looked around as they approached the cottage. With a mad woman and all the police around, one could never be too careful.

The house felt empty when they first entered. Mr. Molesley started to call out, but Mrs. Carson hit him on the arm. "Shh. We have to be more careful than that." She said quietly. More loudly, she added. "Thank you for joining me, Mr. Molesley. I'm sure that I'm being silly, but it just doesn't feel safe right now to be wandering about the grounds."

"Of course, Mrs. Carson!" He practically yelled in return. Elsie rolled her eyes.

In her hiding place upstairs, Phyllis heard their exchange. The fact that her man was completely inept at all this intrigue made her smile. She tiptoed to the stairs and waited. He appeared almost immediately, his face beaming in anticipation. This time, it was he who ran to her, taking the steps two at a time. Elsie waited downstairs quietly for a little while, offering them some privacy as she put on the kettle.

Joseph whispered tenderly to Phyllis as he kissed her in the dark hallway. Phyllis had found a skirt and blouse of Mrs. Carson's that she could wear, but the blouse was just a touch too small and the buttons were strained. Joseph's enthusiastic embrace and insistent kisses soon undid the top few buttons of the blouse and his lips and tongue tasted the top of her breasts. Phyllis could not find the breath nor the will to ask him to stop. She felt her body temperature begin to rise. Any other time and place, she'd have given herself completely to him. She'd even have begged him to take her in that moment. Unfortunately, in the here and now things were too serious to indulge in carnal pleasures. Still, neither of them could break away from the magnetic draw of their would be lover's body.

It was Mr. Carson's reluctant voice from downstairs that called them both back to their senses.

"Mr. Molesely? I trust all is well up there?"

"Um…yes…yes, Mrs. Carson." He looked at Phyllis apologetically as she began to rebutton the blouse. Whether he was sorry that he had gone so far or sorry that he could not go further, she could not say.

"Come downstairs, the two of you. I'll make some tea. There's much we should discuss."

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN Now we have the 'Good Cop, Bad Cop' dynamic going. I think Alexander wants to trust Carson, but Norris is still trying to get closure for the death of Vance. **

**Special thanks to chelsie fan for picking up on a dangling plot point. **

**Reviews keep me going.**


	45. Another Round of Interviews

Despite Mrs. Carson's request to keep the more gruesome details from reaching her girls, the footmen could not resist thrilling the maids with tales of what they had seen.

"Weighted pendulums? How does that even work?" Madge wondered, not really sure she wanted to know.

"I'll show you," Christopher, the newest footman, said enthusiastically.

He stood a loaf of bread on end on the stove. With a length of twine usually used on rack of lamb, he tied an apple to the hood over the stove. He drove a long knife through the apple so that the tip stuck out the other side. He lifted the apple high before releasing it. The apple fell and swung in its purposeful arc. Madge squealed as the knife in the apple plunged into the innocent loaf of bread.

The boys laughed as the girls fanned themselves and muttered disapprovingly. Christopher tore off a bit of the bread and ate it, just to disturb the girls further. His actions were met by a chorus of disgust.

"What's all this?" Mrs. Patmore demanded as she came bustling in.

"Just a little demonstration, Mrs. Patmore." Christopher smirked. Madge looked ill as she considered the implications of what had happened to poor Mr. Blake. Nellie had a perplexed look on her face. For some reason, this all seemed eerily familiar to her.

"Well, if you are done frightening the girls and menacing the baked goods, why don't you go do your jobs? When Mr. Carson returns, he will notice if you've slacked off while he was gone."

Later that morning, Nellie cornered her mother in the upstairs corridor. "Mum?"

"What is it, love?"

"Did you hear how Mr. Blake died?"

"I did. Poor soul."

"Did it remind you of anything?"

Lucille's attention was suddenly focused on the pair of shoes she was carrying. "What do you mean, dear?"

"It's just like one of Gran's favorite stories; the one about the Canadian farmer."

"I'm not sure I remember that one." Lucille lied.

"The fellow who tied scythes to pendulums and sliced his victims into pieces before letting the pigs come in and devour the remains. You have to remember. It was pretty memorable, even by Gran's standards."

"Oh, that one. Yes, I suppose I mainly remembered the pigs. I'd forgotten how he killed them."

"Well?"

"Well, what, dear?"

"Shouldn't we tell the police?"

"That the killer happens to know about a gruesome series of murders in Canada from decades ago? How would that help them? It was in all the papers."

"It might help them narrow down suspects."

"Right now, the only people we know who are familiar with that story are you and I." Lucille said calmly, though she could feel her heart beating more quickly. "The real killer isn't likely to voluntarily implicate themselves."

"No. It's just…"

"Don't think anything more of it, love. The police will make the connection if it's significant. If we hear anything more about it, then we can tell the police."

Nellie accepted her mother's wisdom and returned to the kitchen. Through the day, she still couldn't shake the idea that she should tell someone. Just after luncheon, she knocked on the door to the housekeeper's office.

"Come in."

"Mrs. Carson, can I talk to you?"

-00-

"This Hoxton connection could be something, Sergeant Norris." Detective Alexander suggested. "Read this." He handed the Londoner a dispatch from Thirsk.

Norris read the report twice. "It sounds like their style when they're looking for information; interrogate then kill." All of the victim's fingers had been broken before the man was ultimately strangled to death.

"Nasty way to go."

"They are sadistic bastards, alright, but what would this merchant have to do with Miss Baxter?"

"He is one of Downton Abbey's suppliers and he often goes around claiming he almost married the cook. Someone new to Yorkshire might try to get information out of him before they move on to Downton. Strangers asking questions would be noticed in the Downton village more so than in Thirsk. They likely won't ever show their faces in Downton." Detective Alexander consulted a map. "We need more men at the Abbey. We need to maintain surveillance of the outbuildings and such. I want to take a closer look at those poacher's shacks."

Norris nodded his agreement. "I want to talk to Mrs. Carson; get her version of the story." His tone made it clear that he did consider Mr. Carson's account to be a story.

"Very well, but don't harass her. I happen to believe that she and Mr. Carson were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We're having the handwriting on the letter examined."

"I brought the samples of everyone's writing we took at Grantham House."

"Thank you. That should prove helpful." Detective Alexander built up his courage before asking the next question. "Could you conduct a few more interviews while you are at the Abbey?"

"You want me to talk to Mrs. Butte, don't you?"

"Amongst others. She can't think that we suspect her."

"_We_ don't."

The detective ignored the sergeant's comment. "Talk to the cook and Mrs. Bates as well; make it look like you are talking to the heads of staff and the Lady's maids."

"Fine, but I don't know what to ask her."

"Maybe something about her father's death. See how she reacts to hearing about the Hoxton gang being released. I can send Sergeant Little with you. Perhaps it would help you to have a local lad along."

"Thank you, Detective. That would be welcome."

-00-

"Mr. Tufton is dead?" Carson had eaten and washed and changed into clean clothes. He was still tired, but feeling much better. Currently, he could not believe what he was being told. This could not possibly be related to the happenings at Downton. Beyond that, it was very frustrating for him to see all these terrible things tied back to Downton. Even if this was all resolved, it would take a long time to rehabilitate the Abbey's reputation in the county. The Crawley family was becoming synonymous with death and ill luck.

"He was tortured and then strangled."

"He was a blowhard, but he didn't deserve that."

"People say you threatened him once."

"Yes, but that was years ago. He was harassing one of our employees."

"Mrs. Patmore?"

"Yes. He proposed to her, but wouldn't take no for an answer. We had just lost our heir and I'm afraid I was a bit on edge. I went to Thirsk and told him if I saw his shadow on Downton's doorstep, I'd make him sorry."

"When was this?"

"November, 1921. I didn't even mean it; that was a very emotional time for everyone." Carson sighed to remember those dark days. "I didn't hurt him. I've not seen him since that day, though we still order from his shop."

"I know you didn't kill him. He was killed last night and you were with us." Detective Alexander assured Carson. "I just wanted to know something more about the man. It sounds like he had plenty of enemies, but this was not someone local, I fear."

The penny dropped for Carson. "Miss Baxter's family? But Mr. Tufton never even met Miss Baxter."

"But he had dealings with Downton."

"Are they safe at Downton?" Carson stood. "I should be there."

"I'd still like to keep you here, Mr. Carson. I'm sending more men to guard the Abbey. If Miss Baxter's family come anywhere near, we'll know."

"Why must I stay here?" Carson did not want to be so far from the people he should be protecting.

"I want to show Sergeant Norris that I'm taking his theory seriously."

"That I've orchestrated all of this with Mr. Bates, Mrs. Carson and Mr. Molesley?"

"I don't buy it, but, on some level, I must consider it possible. Keeping you here removes one more variable from the situation."

"You will tell me if I need to call my wife and secure a lawyer?"

"If I don't, any decent lawyer will have your case dismissed before I could blink. If Mrs. Carson could defend you, you'd be assured of acquittal."

Carson smiled at this compliment of his wife. "Perhaps she'll stand for the bar after she retires from housekeeping."

-00-

Elsie walked out of her interview with Sergeants Norris and Little with mixed emotions. She had been sure at one point that they intended to take her back to the station in Ripon as a suspect. She would be glad for the chance to see Charles, but she could not abandon the people at Downton with that insane woman about.

Elsie had been completely honest with the Sergeants about everything except Miss Baxter. She had admitted to being at the barn and seeing Mr. Blake's death. She had described as much as she could and admitted to passing out. "My dear husband probably said that I wasn't there. He's protective of me. It sometimes makes him less than smart."

"He eventually came clean, Mrs. Carson. About everything." Norris bluffed.

"Good." Elsie was not fooled into revealing anything about Miss Baxter. She knew that if Charles had told them about Miss Baxter, the policemen's first stop would have been her own cottage. "We just want the killer stopped."

The next interviewee was Mrs. Patmore. They did not speak to her for very long, but she gave them an earful about how dangerous times had become since the war. "I blame the liberals."

They finally shut her up by telling her about Mr. Tufton's death, though they omitted the details. Beryl left the interview and went in search of Elsie. She needed her friend.

Then, the sergeants spoke to Mrs. Butte. Sergeant Little took the lead while Norris watched closely. He was quite good at reading people, he thought. He wanted to concentrate on watching this woman that Mr. Carson was trying to claim was capable of the terrible crimes Norris had seen in London.

"Mr. Blake's manner of death was rather unique." Little fished gently, using information Mrs. Carson had provided in her interview. "I've never heard of the like."

"I have." Something about the way the man asked told Lucille she needed to fess up to knowing about the farmer in Canada. "There were a series of murders in Canada where the method of death was just like this. Must have been over a decade ago. My mother was into gruesome murders and told me about it."

"Yes, your mother…Evangeline Grovesner?" Sergeant Little looked in his tattered notebook.

Lucille's confidence waivered. It was very subtle, but Norris saw it. "Yes."

"She died very recently?"

"Yes."

"Suicide?" He did not need to add that there seemed to be a rash of suicides lately.

"It was ultimately ruled an accidental suffocation." The coroner's report had been lenient and had taken Evangaline's mental state into account.

"Yes, a fire, in August." Lucille began to feel tense. Would a death she had no hand in be her undoing?

"Your father died a long time ago? A victim of a violent crime?" Sergeant changed topics deftly.

"Yes. It was his death that began my mother's obsession with such dark crimes."

"At the time, the Hoxton gang were suspected, though nothing was ever proven."

"Most of them were jailed for other crimes eventually."

"Yes. Eventually jailed and eventually released."

"Released?" Lucille could not completely control her response. A flare of anger flashed through her. Again, Norris saw it. He was beginning to believe Mr. Carson's accusation might have some credence after all.

"Most of them were just released. Ironically, it was a technicality that was exposed when Miss Baxter's death brought them back into the public eye."

"Because of Miss Baxter's death, they were _all_ released?" The irony caused Mrs. Butte's bile to rise.

"Yes. We suspect two of them, her husband and uncle, are in Yorkshire trying to find out more information about her life here at Downton."

"They're in Yorkshire, you say?" Maybe this wasn't all bad.

"They may have killed a man in Thirsk last night; a shopkeeper, like your father."

"Might they come to Downton?" Lucille didn't care about this shopkeeper.

"It's very likely. We're setting up sentries around Downton just in case."

_Let them come._ Lucille though darkly. "Thank you for the warning, Sergeant. Is that all you require of me?"

"Yes, Mrs. Butte. Please send Madge in next."

"Certainly. Good day, gentlemen."

If Sergeant Norris had seen the smile on her face as she left the room, he would have arrested her on the spot.

TBC...

* * *

><p><strong>AN Yeah! I got to kill off Tufton, that makes me very happy. I am planning to wrap this up this week, so your time to comment and influence the story is coming to a close...though it's never too late to comment, even after the story is complete. Is now the time to reveal that Lucille has been training attack mongooses (mongeese?) in the wine cellar?**


	46. Beneath an Angry Star

**THE BEGINNING OF THE END!**

* * *

><p>"It isn't your fault, Beryl." Elsie had her arm around her friend, soothing the distraught cook.<p>

"They killed him because he told people about him and me."

"We don't know that." Elsie insisted. "It could have been any of our suppliers."

"What of our other suppliers?" Beryl looked up in terror.

"I've given the police a list of everyone. They are warning people and offering extra patrols." Elsie assured her. "Though, it seems unlikely they'll try anything so bold again."

"I don't think we are dealing with rational people, Elsie." Beryl shook her head. "They sound more like ravenous animals. How do people become like that?"

"I wish I had an answer. I refuse to think people are born bad, but I hate to think of what could make people grow into such unfeeling creatures."

"What if they come to Downton?"

"We'll look after each other and we'll hope the police are ready for them." Elsie sounded more sure than she felt.

-00-

_They are free. They are coming. Fate is bringing them to me. _

Lucille was sitting in her room on the edge of her bed. She was smiling. She let a calm wash over her. She felt at once powerless and powerful. She had that euphoric feeling of being so infinitesimal that one's life didn't matter and being so blessed that one's endeavors could not fail. Her time as an instrument was almost over. She had proven herself worthy. Her reward was only a few final acts away.

She saw the final steps clearly. Now, her lifetime of living inside the heads of criminals the like of the Hoxton gang would guide her. She trusted that she would find them. The lessons learned at her mother's knee would lead her. There was no doubt in her heart.

Best of all, she could reveal herself soon. How wonderful it would feel to come out of the darkness and into the light. Her actions would be acknowledged, perhaps misunderstood at first, but known. In the end, they would all understand. He would understand. They would see and they would know on that final day. She was grateful to know that the final day was fast approaching.

But there was something she had to do before she was truly ready for the resolution.

-00-

"I may owe you an apology, Mr. Carson." Sergeant Norris said meekly. "There is something off about that Mrs. Butte. When she heard about the Hoxton gang being released, her eyes could have burned a hole through an iceberg."

"And you just left her there? With the family and the rest of the staff?"

"What cause did I have to bring her in?"

"What cause have you to keep me here?" Carson countered. "Just ask her to cooperate and get her away from Downton."

"She still doesn't think we suspect her. If she seeks out the Hoxton's we may kill two birds with one stone."

"You mean you'll risk other lives to let a madwoman do your work for you?" Carson bellowed as he stood aggressively.

"See here, Mr. Carson! Your failure to come to us sooner may very well have caused Mr. Blake's death, so don't get all high and mighty with me!" Norris stood toe to toe, looking up at the fuming butler.

"Gentlemen! Please calm down." Detective Alexander separated the two men quickly. "Mr. Carson, my men are keeping an eye on the Abbey. They will see that everyone is safe. She won't dare move with all the police presence about."

"That's what we thought," Carson grumbled sadly. "And, as you said, that miscalculation may have cost Mr. Blake his life."

He sat back down with a defeated slouch. "May I at least return to Downton, Detective? I can't abide being away. I am responsible for the household."

"I'd rather not, but I can't make you stay." Detective Alexander admitted.

"Then, I believe I shall return home."

"Very well, Mr. Carson. So long as you have told us everything."

"I have."

-00-

"Carson! It's good to see you back, man!" Lord Grantham was pleasantly surprised to see the butler open the door to announce dinner.

"It is good to be back, My Lord. I apologize for any inconvenience."

"Think nothing of it, these are strange days, but the staff have performed admirably."

Carson was oddly proud that the level of service upstairs had remained up to standards throughout this whole horrible ordeal. Lady Rose was still refusing to dine with the family. Lady Mary was keeping to her room, understandably shaken by the death of Mr. Blake. Everyone else was carrying on as though the tragedies that were happening all around them were happening half a world away. Carson, not for the first time, observed how insulated their lives were.

Charles had only had time to give Elsie a quick kiss before sounding the changing gong and running to his old room to change for service. One look between them communicated everything. A half smile from him and a nod from her confirmed that he would carry out his serving duties, she would keep a close eye on Mrs. Butte and they would talk later.

After dinner service, Mr. Carson returned downstairs and officiated over the servant's dinner. Downstairs' dinner was a somber affair, just as breakfast and luncheon and tea had been. A few brave souls risked furtive glances towards the head of the table where Mr. Carson ate with a machine-like efficiency. He knew that a single look at Mrs. Butte would give the game away, so he did not dare take his eyes off of his plate.

At the conclusion of dinner, Mr. Carson stood to make an announcement. He focused on the younger staff further down to the table and did not look at Mrs. Butte nor Mrs. Carson.

"For your safety, all half days are cancelled until further notice. Only essential excursions into town will be allowed. Said excursions must consist of at least three people, with at least one of those people being a male staff member who will be armed. A house-wide curfew will go into effect thirty minutes after dinner is concluded." He looked at the worried faces around the table. He wanted to warn them about Mrs. Butte. He wanted to lock her into her room, but he suspected that would make her more dangerous.

"Be vigilant and let me or a police officer know at once if you see anything strange. There will be a pair of police at each entrance to Downton and several more roaming the grounds. If we look out for each other, we have nothing to fear." Judging by the trusting nods around the table, Carson was getting better at lying.

-00-

"They believe you and they still won't do anything?" Elsie was astonished.

"What can they do? They have no proof." Charles shrugged, using the action to draw his wife closer as she sat on his lap in his office. Curfew or not, he had no intention of letting her out of his sight tonight. "I think they hope that she'll take care of Miss Baxter's family before they catch her."

"What if Miss Baxter went to the police? Wouldn't that give them cause to bring her in?"

"To bring her in, but not to convict her. You heard Miss Baxter, her testimony would not stand up to scrutiny."

"But perhaps she'll crack under real interrogation." Elsie suggested.

"Did you see her at dinner? I'm more likely to confess than she is." It was meant as a joke, but it fell flat as the strange truth of the statement struck him.

"You don't know that. Maybe she's proud of what she's done. Maybe she wants to be caught."

"She has a funny way of showing it."

-00-

"Nellie?"

"Yes, Mum?" The police had finished removing Miss O'Brien's things, so Nellie had volunteered to share her mother's room tonight. Anna had claimed it would be too creepy for her to sleep in Miss O'Brien's bed, but it didn't bother Nellie.

"I've been thinking." Lucille was brushing Nellie's hair as she had when the girl was young.

"Yes?"

"If something were to happen to me, I want to be sure you will be okay."

"Don't talk that way, Mum."

"Things happen, love. If we are prepared for the worst, we don't need to fear anything." Lucille stroked her daughter's soft curls lovingly.

Nellie did not know what to say, so she waited for her mother to continue.

"Clive will inherit the house. He'll probably sell it and spend all the money within a year. There is nothing I can do about that."

"I'll look after him, Mum, but it won't come to that." Nellie turned to face her mother.

"That's just it. You are a good girl and I am proud of you. I know you will try to look after Clive, but I want you to know that you mustn't blame yourself if you can't save him. I've tried and tried, but he's beyond my reach." Lucille set aside the brush and took her daughter's hands. "You need to look after yourself. They'll treat you well here. You're learning important skills."

"Why are you saying this now? What aren't you telling me? Are you sick, Mum?"

Lucille considered the question. Yes, some people would probably say that she was sick. She didn't want her last act as a mother to be lying to her daughter. "I don't think that I am sick, love, but I must say that I haven't been feeling myself lately."

"Have you been to the doctor?"

"I promise to take care of it, but I just want to know that you'll be okay."

Nellie was nearly in tears. Her mother's words frightened her in a way that all of the deaths around them had not. "I'll be fine as long as you're here."

"But if I'm not…"

"Where would you be?"

"Who can say?" Lucille answered enigmatically. "Dear, I know this is a melancholy subject, so just let me finish and we'll never speak of it again."

Nellie bit her lip to keep quiet and nodded.

"When your grandfather died, we fell on hard times until your father came along. After your father died, your Gran and I had to sell everything to make ends meet. But there was one thing I could not bring myself to part with." Lucille reached underneath her pillow and pulled out a velvet bag. She withdrew an intricate gold ring with a perfect, blood-red ruby in it. It shone in the electric light like Mars on a clear winter's night.

"Your Grandfather gave this to Gran the day I was born." Lucille had told her mother that she'd sold the ring, not trusting her mother to wear it. "Your grandfather was born in July, just like me. The ruby is the July birthstone. It stands for passion and protection. This ring always felt like a connection to him and it reminds me that your grandfather is looking over me."

The emotions rising in Lucille surprised her. This red stone had meant so much to her through the years though she'd never said so aloud; always keeping the ring and the emotions hidden.

"And now, no matter what happens, I know he'll look after you." There were tears in Lucille's eyes and Nellie was crying as well.

"But I want _you_ to look after me."

"And so I will, love, always." Lucille embraced Nellie and kissed her hair. She slipped the ring onto one of her daughter's fingers. Lucille held Nellie and hummed quietly to her until the girl was done crying and had drifted off to sleep. She lay there for a few more hours, listening to the bones of the house creak and groan. When she was certain no one would hear her, Lucille snuck out of her room. She crept down the stairs to the ground floor. Silently, she slipped out a window in the music room, confident the police would not be patrolling a side of the Abbey that had no doors.

The sky was clear. An angry, red star hung low on the Eastern horizon. She followed it into the trees, unseen. She took nothing with her. Like a monk who has taken a vow of poverty, she had divested herself of anything that was Lucille Butte. She was no longer a Lady's maid. She was no longer a mother. She was nothing. She trusted that whatever she needed would be provided. She trusted that each step brought her closer to the end. She was operating on blind faith now.

With clear eyes, Lucille gave herself over to the madness and walked into the dawn.

TBC…

* * *

><p><strong>AN FYI, that red star is Betelgeuse, Orion's shoulder. I couldn't figure out where Mars would be in 1924, so I had to use a star. In August, it would be visible in the predawn hours on the eastern horizon.**

**Yes, Lucille is completely mad, but she was still sane when she was being a mother. Saying goodbye to Nellie was her letting go of her last bit of humanity. Translation: She is free to be CRAY CRAY now and she don't care who knows it. Be afraid.  
><strong>


	47. The Hunt Begins

"Mrs. Patmore! Mrs. Patmore!" Nellie ran down the hall towards the cook's room. She woke everyone in the women's dorms and most everyone in the men's.

"Bless me, child! It's five o' the clock, whatever is the matter? You'd think the house were on fire."

"It's Mum! She's gone!"

Beryl stared blankly at the girl, unsure of what to do. She roused herself from the shock to knock on the door to Elsie's old room. There was no answer. She opened the door and saw that the bed had not been slept in. Beryl fumbled with the key hanging by the door that divided to men's and women's hallway. A very flustered looking Mr. Molesley almost knocked her over as she opened the door.

"What's going on?"

"Wake Mr. Carson."

Molesley knocked on Mr. Carson's door. As Mrs. Patmore had done with Elsie's room, Molesley opened the door to find it empty.

Downstairs in the butler's pantry, Charles stirred. He groaned as his stiff back told him the same thing his wife had told him the night before when he had suggested they both spend the night sleeping in his chair, _'You are a stubborn, old fool.' _Of course, Elsie had been kinder when she told him and had accompanied the message with a loving smile and a kiss.

That same smile and a new kiss greeted him as his eyes fluttered open.

"What time is it?"

"Just past five." She stood up out of his lap and stretched. Feeling began to return to his legs.

"I thought I heard…"

"Mr. Carson!" Molesley burst into the room without even a cursory knock.

"What on earth is it, Mr. Molesley?"

"You're both needed upstairs at once. Mrs. Butte has gone missing!"

The three of them exchanged knowing glances. Mrs. Carson quickly removed a key from her hip. "Send the police to us and go check on _our guest_, Mr. Molesley. Be careful." He did not need to be told twice.

The two officers from the backdoor joined Mr. and Mrs. Carson as they climbed the stairs to the attics. Charles tried to carry himself with his usual grace, though his very bones were protesting.

"Everyone, get back to bed; you'll need that last hour of sleep." Mr. Carson ordered the curious onlookers. The officers, senior staff and Nellie went back into Mrs. Butte's room.

"Calm down, Nellie." Elsie said kindly, guiding the girl to her bed to sit down. "I'm sure she's alright."

Nellie shook her head. "She's not alright. She was talking strangely last night. I think…" The girl was terrified to say what she thought.

"It doesn't matter, Nellie. First off, we need to find her. How long has she been gone, do you think?"

"She was here when I fell asleep around eleven. She didn't take anything with her, not even her coin purse." Nellie pointed to the purse on the dresser.

"She's not planning on going very far, it would seem." Mrs. Patmore observed.

"We need to check the house and make sure the family and the rest of the staff are all safe." Carson said crisply. He shuddered to think what the woman might have gotten up to in the six hours she might have had.

"I'll call Detective Alexander." One of the officers pronounced before darting out of the room.

Nellie was crying on Elsie's shoulder. "She's sick. I should have seen."

"Shh, now, you mustn't think on it, child. We're all blindest where we love the most." Elsie soothed. She gave Charles a look. He took her meaning immediately.

"Officer…"

"Grady."

"Officer Grady, let's go to my office and talk there. I don't think there is anything new Miss Butte here can tell us at the moment."

"Agreed." The men left Nellie in the care of the cook and housekeeper. It was the best they could do for her at the moment.

-00-

When the staff officially arose at six, they were organized into search parties and sent throughout the house. Anna and Madge had already been sent to the nursery to confirm that Master George was safe before moving on to awaken the Ladies of the house. Mr. Bates went directly to His Lordship. The Earl dressed expediently and came downstairs just as Detective Alexander and Sergeant Norris arrived.

"You are spending so much time here we should just have rooms prepared for you." Lord Grantham joked darkly.

"We may, indeed, need to impose, Your Lordship. I think we should set up a command center at the Abbey until we find Mrs. Butte."

"Carson?"

"We can bring chairs and tables into the smoking room, My Lord. It is the least used of the larger rooms."

"Will that do, Detective?"

"Very nicely, Lord Grantham."

-00-

Once the police were satisfied that Mrs. Butte was not in the house, they set out a plan for searching the grounds. Mr. Branson had been called to the Abbey from the agent's house. He and Mr. Drewe had assembled some of the tenants on the front lawn of the Abbey. Tom had devised a very simple plan for searching the most likely places first.

"I wish we had better maps of the smaller outbuildings, but most of them are noted."

Most of the men joined the search, but Mr. Bates remained at the house with the ladies and a handful of policemen. Mr. Molesley had returned quickly from warning Miss Baxter, though Mrs. Carson noted that his tie was no longer straight. She warned him to fix it before Mr. Carson saw.

"It's unlikely that she'll return, but, given that she is quite mad, I don't think we can take anything for granted. Be safe, love." Charles squeezed Elsie's hand for reassurance before following heading off with his search group.

"And you."

-00-

Skills honed by years of moving silently through Grantham House transferred to the woods. Lucille barely stirred a leaf as she walked deeper into the woods in the awakening dawn.

Lucille knew that anyone trying to approach and observe Downton Abbey would do so from the woods to the East of the house. They would not move openly during the day, which means they would be seeking a hiding place as the day began. The poacher's shacks offered obvious shelter. Too obvious, perhaps, but two London boys used to a roof over their heads would find the shacks too convenient to resist.

Their chances of concealment lay in the fact that there were so many shacks and not all of them were known. Certainly there was no one person who could find them all. If they could find a shack that looked as though it had not been touched in years, even for clandestine smoking and card games, they stood a good chance of remaining hidden.

Sight would not help Lucille find them. On the edge of an opening in the trees, Lucille stopped and listened. Noises traveled strangely amongst the trees, echoed and amplified briefly before dying in the soft earth.

Lucille listened and waited. A covey of pheasant ran across the clearing and disappeared and Lucille waited. The sun climbed higher in the sky and she waited. The boughs of the trees sighed in the breeze, telling her to be patient. The birds chirped their encouragement and promised to betray any interlopers. Finally, a sound that was not of the forest carried to her ears; breaking glass. If she had been moving, it would have been impossible to know from what direction the sound came. In her state of patient listening, she knew immediately.

She walked with sure and silent steps along a path that only she could see. Briefly, there was a silent spot in the forest. The breaking glass had frightened off the birds. Lucille followed this hole in the soundscape until it was filled again with returning fauna, but she no longer needed any guidance. She had already found her unsuspecting quarry.

TBC...

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><p><strong>AN I know this is short, but RL is getting hectic (in a good way- beautiful summer weather will do that), and I thought something was better than nothing. Technically, this is the beginning of the middle of the end;)  
><strong>


	48. Mr Hoxton and Mr Fletcher

Lucille crouched in the undergrowth as she listened to the two men settling in for their day of waiting. She edged closer as they moved about noisily.

They'd found an abandoned Romany wagon with a broken wheel. A small pane of glass in the door was broken, which explained how they had gained entrance and explained the noise that Lucille had heard. Someone had locked the wagon, hoping to return to it, but by the state of the wagon, it had been forgotten several decades ago. The vegetation around the wagon was so thick the wagon was indistinguishable from the woods around it.

Lewis Hoxton and Ken Fletcher had both spent the last twelve years in prison. They were enjoying their Yorkshire romp where the predominant smells were grass and flowers instead of the industrial filth of the prison factory. They were enjoying their freedom in other ways. Though there had been plenty of occasions to practice their thuggery on other inmates, they had both enjoyed their encounter with Mr. Tufton. Like seasoned cricketers after a match, they compared notes.

"I forgot how hard thumbs are to break." Lewis admitted, removing a dust filled blanket from the top of a chest. The blankets and bedrolls inside the chest were pristine, having been protected from the rot and decay that had taken over the rest of the wagon.

"You're not as strong as you used to be, old man." Ken teased, looking through the shelves for anything useful.

"Have you looked in a mirror, son? You're no spring chick yourself." The grizzled older man chuckled. At seventy-two, Lewis Hoxton was the youngest of the Hoxton boys who had founded the gang over fifty years ago, though their crimes predated the formal formation of the gang.

Lewis had started his notorious career at the age of thirteen when he'd stolen a police horse on a dare from his older brothers. His once thick, blond hair was now a course ring of yellowed straw relegated to the perimeter of his head, like a coronet of hay. His right eye was deep green and looked around keenly. His left eye was milky and blind; a souvenir of a battle with a rival gang when the Hoxton's were establishing their power in Soho.

Lewis was a slight man with cautious motions. His companion was the complete opposite. Despite Lewis' teasing, Ken Fletcher had the look of a man still in his prime. Ken stood over six foot tall. He was built like a boxer, with broad shoulders and a square jaw. His nose was flat and his eyes were shiny black, like a weasel's. His fifty-nine years hung comfortably on him. He looked no older than thirty-six. The only signs of his advanced age were the grey patches in his heavy beard. Years of hard living in prison had kept his muscles hard and strong.

"I don't need a mirror to tell me I look good." Ken joked back. He gave up on finding anything good in the cupboards and returned to where Lewis was rolling out bedrolls and blankets. "Besides, you couldn't break thumbs when you were a young man."

Lewis grunted something unintelligible and lay down. The two men had a long history together and Lewis knew that is was sometimes best just to let Ken have his way. Ken was almost like a son to Lewis. It had been Lewis' idea to marry the young Phyllis to his mate though the age difference between them was so great. Ken's marriage to Phyllis brought him officially into the family and had made his climb to a place of leadership in the gang all but assured.

"You take first watch." Lewis said as he closed his eyes.

"We don't need a watch, this wagon is impossible to find." The younger man said confidently.

"_We_ found it."

"But we found all those others first. They'd been used recently. This one ain't been touched in years. Besides, it's not as though anyone will be searching for us this close to the house." Ken yawned. He set a pistol and a knife beside him as he lay down as well. "Just get some sleep. We'll sneak up to the house come dark and see if we can nab someone for information."

"Maybe we can nab a woman for entertainment as well as information." Lewis suggested lecherously.

"Didn't you get your fill of the whores in London?"

"Need I remind you that we've been imprisoned for over a decade? Besides, that was four days ago. A man gets hungry every day, don't he?"

"We'll see what we can do, you old goat, but remember, we're here to find out about Phyllis, not to dip your wick."

"I don't see why they're mutually exclusive." Lewis grumbled.

"I said we'll see what we can do. If we end up with a pretty enough boy, I know for a fact you wouldn't say 'no' to that."

A cruel smile spread across Lewis' face. "Right you are. I would not say 'no' to that at all."

Lucille had heard all of their disgusting conversation. It was going to be a pleasure to kill these two monsters. She thought of just setting the wagon on fire and letting them die in the flames, but she was afraid they might escape. Also, Lucille wanted these two to know why they were dying and who was killing them. Fate had not led her so unerringly to them for her to simply kill them in their sleep. Fate had educated her in the high art of death. This would be her masterpiece; her Sistine Chapel, her Mona Lisa.

-00-

The discouraged searchers returned to the house for luncheon. Men lay about on Downton's front lawn eating the repast Mrs. Patmore and her girls had prepared for them. Daisy thought they'd prepared enough food for an army, but it disappeared like crops before locust. When she commented to Mrs. Patmore about it, the cook only said, "Regular men don't eat the same as Lords."

While the maids were busy serving the food and Mrs. Patmore was complaining loudly to Mrs. Carson, Daisy realized they'd forgotten someone. She made a tray and carried it upstairs. She knocked gently on the door to one of the attic rooms.

Nellie peeked around the door as she opened it just a hair. Daisy smiled kindly at her and held the tray up. "I thought you might be hungry. Crying is hungry work."

Nellie wiped at her wet cheeks and opened the door further. Daisy stepped in and set the tray on a set of drawers. She looked at Nellie awkwardly and smiled again.

"I'll come back for the tray in a little while. Is there anything else you need? Would you like a book or something?"

Nellie shook her head as she stared at Daisy with a perplexed expression. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"And why shouldn't I be? You've not done anything. We can't even be sure what your Mum has done. Mrs. Patmore is always telling me, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged.'" She puffed up and put her hands on her hips in best Patmore fashion. Nellie smiled despite herself.

"I just wish she'd take her own advice more often." Daisy added conspiratorially before she left the room with a wink.

-00-

In the smoking room, Mr. Branson, Mr. Drewe, Carson, Lord Grantham and Detective Alexander huddled around a large map of the estate.

"We covered the woods from here," Detective Alexander placed a chess piece on the map beside the pig barn, "to here." He placed another piece beside the lake.

"We searched all the known poacher's shacks," Tom offered, indicating the forest. "We even found a few new ones, but there's still a lot of woods to be searched."

"Lynch, the stable boys and I have ridden the southern perimeter." Lord Grantham added. "There aren't a lot of hiding places down there."

"There was no sign of her on the path to the village nor in the village." Carson reported.

"She has to be in the woods. We'll concentrate our search there after luncheon." Detective Alexander concluded. "Get some food and a bit of rest, gentlemen."

Carson headed downstairs to find his wife. He wanted to be sure everything was going well and that the upstairs Ladies were not being too put out by all this hubbub. Elsie was not to be found downstairs. Charles went into his office to wait for her to come down.

The day's mail sat in a pile on his desk. Out of habit, Carson leafed through it, separating the household correspondence from the personal letters he would deliver to the staff at the first opportunity. The family mail had already been removed and delivered by Mr. Bates. This simple and familiar task calmed him. As he finished sorting the mail and was about to pull down a ledger to double check, one of the letters caught his eye. It was addressed to him in a familiar hand. He was about to tear it open, but thought better of it.

Charles almost ran Elsie over as he hurried up the stairs. "What's the hurry, love?"

"Mrs. Butte has written me a letter!" He held it up before her.

"What does it say?"

"I thought it best to open it with the police. They know I kept things from them before, I want to be open with them now."

"Good idea." Elsie nodded enthusiastically. "Shall I come with you?"

"If you like, but it isn't necessary." His grip on her hand said otherwise. The two of them exited the green baize door and hurried to the smoking room together.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Next up, the end of the middle of the end... I hope to post later today, so keep an eye out.  
><strong>


	49. A Confession of Love and Madness

_'Dearest Charles, _

_I can keep silent no longer. I love you and I know you could love me. You were meant to love me. I know that we will be together at the end of our days which will soon be upon us._

_My desire to prove my love for you has led me down a path that only the purest souls could tread without fear. I have killed for you, but do not think that any I have killed are innocent. We are none of us innocent. We are all full of sin and corrupt desires, but my actions have brought me into the favor of the Lord of Justice. I have given up my mortal will. To him I give all the glory and control. _

_Fate has rewarded my selfish intentions and has offered me the chance to serve as executioner to members of the family who destroyed my own family. _

_I have you to thank for everything. The kindnesses you have shown be made me love you. That love has led me to my calling. What I have done for you has led me to my true purpose in life. I know now that I was created to dispense justice to those beyond the reach of man's laws. _

_ It all began with my earnest desire to protect you, my sweet and beautiful man. Ivy, James, Carlisle, Edna, Mr. Bryant and Thomas; I killed them all to protect your precious house and family. In the process, Miss Hoxton-Fletcher was flushed into the light. I killed her to punish her family for what they did to mine. Detective Vance was an unexpected victim, but I must trust in the higher power that guides my hand. It was not God's will that I end my path on that rooftop in London._

_I thought my work was done and I could wait patiently for you to see the emptiness of your shallow marriage to find a deeper life with me, but Fate pushed me on once more. It sent me Miss O'Brien. I thought she was to be a partner, but I was mistaken. She was not a purified agent of Justice sent to teach me, but a diseased heart warped by paranoia and selfish hate sent to die at my hand. It was she who killed Lady Flintshire and I who killed her. _

_Mr. Blake saw Miss O'Brien and me immediately after the murder. He threatened to expose me if I did not spy for him. He knew too much to live. I did not mean for you to be caught in the trap I set for another. It is time to reveal the truth of things to you and to everyone. I am not ashamed of what I have done. _

_When I heard that some of the cruel monsters who killed my father were in Yorkshire, I knew my actions had been found pleasing. They walk to me like lambs to the slaughter, sent by Providence to a good and faithful servant. My final act of obedience will be to send them to their Lord and Master in Hell._

_Then, my work is complete. Then I ask you to come to me, my love. Seek me out so I can show you the fullness of my love for you. I forgive you for being led astray by that Scottish strumpet, that Celtic demon. She bewitched you with her black and sensual arts, but when you have seen what I will show you, you will see that my love is purer._

_Do not let the shortsighted laws of man turn you against me. Open yourself to the glory of a burning and passionate devotion that cannot be bound within the limitations of human understanding. _

_I will send you a sign. You will know where to find me. Come to me so we may meet our destiny together._

_His instrument and your servant, _

_Lucille'_

Detective Alexander finished reading the letter aloud. Everyone was silent. What could be said in the face of such madness? The detective tried to hand the letter back to Mr. Carson who recoiled as though it might bite him. Mrs. Carson took it and looked at it closely.

"Her handwriting is all over the place," Elsie observed. "Here, it looks like the note she wrote me. Here, it looks like Mr. Barrow's writing."

"She's completely gone round the bend," Sergeant Norris said with disgusted awe. "She don't even know who she is anymore."

"But she knows what she means to do." Detective Alexander reminded them. "She means to find and kill Hoxton and Fletcher."

"I say we let her." Norris half joked. No one laughed.

"I wouldn't wish her on my worst enemy," the detective shuddered as he spoke. "But now, I think we should change our search. She's all but disappeared, but those two city boys will be easy to find. If we find them, we'll find her."

"What makes you think she'll find them?"

"Whether it's luck or skill or madness or God his self, she's accomplished everything else she has set out to do."

Elsie stood closer to her husband. Mrs. Butte had made it pretty plain that she expected Charles to join her in death after she'd dispatched the two mobsters. The letter in her hand was the work of a sick and delusional mind, there was no denying that, but Lucille had proven herself even more dangerous because of her blind belief in her delusions. "She wrote a reference to some verses here at the bottom; Job 38:24-37" Elsie pointed out. "Maybe she's given us a clue to where she is?"

"More likely, she's told us where she'll be after she deals with our London friends." The Yorkshire detective amended. "Let's track down a bible and see what it says, but our priority is to find those men."

"Detective! Come quick!" Sergeant Little burst into the room, wild-eyed and sputtering. In the distance, they could hear the village bells ringing in alarm.

TBC...

* * *

><p><strong>ANThings will happen fast and furious now. I am still trying to finish this up by Monday of next week, so keep an eye out for posts, Fanfic is acting a little odd.**

**Technically, this is the preamble to the end of the middle of the end. (give or take)**.


	50. Lucille Takes the Upper Hand

**WARNING: EXPLICIT LANGUAGE AND DETAILED GORE.**

* * *

><p>Lucille let her victims sleep away the morning. She headed off towards other poacher's shacks in search of supplies. She was not sure what she was to do with them yet, but she could not dwell on such trivialities. The universe would show her the way.<p>

Several times, Lucille heard the search parties from Downton approaching. She did not panic, but efficiently hid herself until she was sure she was out of danger. They were so loud that she had plenty of time to hide.

Sometimes when she was hiding, still and quiet, her thoughts drifted back to Downton; to him. She wondered if Charles had received her letter yet. She'd sent it out in last night's mail which would have been processed this morning before the milk train. The village postmaster only had to validate the stamp and return the letter immediately back to Downton. What would Charles think? Could he see beyond the horrors she had committed to see that he held her heart? Would he come to meet her?

She shook off these doubts and moved on as the searcher's voices grew fainter. She approached a cluster of shacks. They were well used by the staff and everyone knew about them. There were signs that the searchers had already been here. She moved swiftly between the small buildings. In the first shack she found an old sack which she quickly filled with her supplies. After less than ten minutes of searching, Lucille had everything she needed. The plan had been revealed to her.

She headed back towards the foliage-covered wagon where her not so innocent lambs waited. Amongst other things, she had found an old pack of cigarettes. Lucille had never smoked in her life, but she thought she might try it once before she died. As she lit the paper of the cigarette, Lucille could not help but wonder at how calmly she could contemplate her own death. She shouldn't have been surprised though. It seemed silly to be frightened by something that must come to everyone. Death was one of the only givens in life. Hadn't some American said something witty about death and taxes?

The smoke made her cough slightly. Noise was the enemy, so she snuffed the cigarette out on the bark of a tree. She was not impressed by smoking, but she kept the pack in the pocket of her dress. If she was feeling magnanimous, she could offer last cigarettes to her condemned men.

The contents of the poacher's shacks had shown her what she would do. Lucille looked closely at the wagon once more. She noted that the door swung outwards. A trip wire would not work here, but she could wedge the door shut. It wouldn't hold long, but it wouldn't need to.

She peeked into the wagon through the hole left by the broken pane of glass. She was too short to see the sleeping men on the floor, but she could hear them snoring lightly. Lucille looked around inside the wagon as she contemplated her approach. She smiled when she saw the hatch in the roof.

Slowly, Lucille climbed up the side of wagon with a few things from her bag of tricks. The moss that had settled over the wooden walls of the wagon made her climb silent. Upon reaching to top of wagon, Lucille silently pulled the vegetation away from the roof to uncover the hatch.

The trees above her shaded the hatch from the sun, but she did not risk opening it too far. Looking down on the sleeping men, Lucille wished that she'd thought to bring her chloroform from the house. This was not going to be easy, but that was why this was her last task. She'd built up to this and she had to trust that she would succeed.

Lucille propped the hatch slightly open and began feeding fishing line with a heavy hook down towards the larger of the sleeping men. He was younger than his cohort, so Lucille assumed that was Mr. Fletcher. Fletcher was laying on his back with one hand up beside his head. Hoxton was laying on his stomach in a similar pose. Years of sleeping with a weapon under one's pillow made this their natural positions for sleep. It so happened that this helped Lucille considerably.

She had to reach her arm into the interior of the wagon to hook the trigger guard of the gun on the end of her line. Smoothly but quickly, she pulled the gun up towards her. Now, she had a backup plan. If she could not handle them as she had planned, she would just shoot them. It would be less satisfying, but it would do the job.

Now came the tricky part.

Lucille climbed back down to the ground and walked to the place she thought was closest to the sleeping men's heads. Once more, she peeled back leaves and vines until she found the solid wood of the wagon. The wood had aged remarkably well, but was rotting out in some places, just as she had hoped. She found one of the places and began quietly pulling away the dry rot. When she looked through the tiny hole she had made, Lucille was almost eye to eye with the smaller man.

After making a note that their positions were unchanged, Lucille opened the sack again and removed heavier rope. She quickly tied her knots and prepared the snare. With the gun always handy, she moved around and under the wagon, making use of the dry rot to create holes where she needed. She pulled a few other important items from the sack and placed them where they would be at hand when needed.

When she thought she was nearly prepared, Lucille walked around the wagon one more time. The sun was high in the sky now. The search party would have returned to the Abbey for luncheon, she reckoned. Now was the perfect time. Her sacrificial beasts would not sleep this peacefully much longer. She must move now. She would only have one chance to make this work. If she failed, she'd have to resort to the inelegant solution of the pistol.

Reaching with both hands through the largest hole she had made, Lucille held her breath and prayed. It was not a prayer of askance but of offering. _'For you, Father. Finally, this is for you.' _

In one fluid motion, Lucille slipped two identical nooses over the hands of Hoxton and Fletcher and pulled with all her might. The two men slid across the floor of the wagon, dragged by their wrists. They both hit the wall with their heads, cursing and angry.

Lucille had wrapped the ropes around a nearby tree to give her better leverage. She tied off her end of the ropes quickly before the two men had woken enough to struggle. They would surely prove stronger than her if given the opportunity.

Two hairy and flailing arms now stuck out of the side of the wagon. Lucille saw Fletcher's arm twist as he struggled to turn over on his front. Lucille now pulled a third noose, the end of which she had threaded through the last sturdy spokes of the unbroken wheel. This loop pulled the arms of the men together at the bicep and pulled them downward onto a wooden board.

"What the hell?" Fletcher cursed. "Who the fuck is out there?" He had not managed to turn over before Lucille had immobilized his arm. He pulled and pulled, but only made matters worse.

"If you calm down, I shall tell you." Lucille answered him with a giggle in her voice.

"What the fuck?" Hoxton exclaimed, "It's a bloody woman."

"You'd better start running now, bitch!" Fletcher threatened. His free hand was searching frantically for his gun. Unable to find it, he grabbed the knife. He could not reach the ropes through the hole that was currently plugged with their shoulders, the desperate man began to stab at the wall of the wagon randomly. Occasionally, he would find a patch of rot and his hand would bust through, but he was not accomplishing anything productive due to his inability to see what was going on behind him.

Standing safely back, Lucille watched carefully, making sure she still had the upper hand.

"Do you want to hear what I have to say or not? Consider your answer carefully, it will affect the remaining duration of your life." _The length of it, anyway._

She saw Lewis' one good eye press to a hole in the side of the wagon. It doubled in size when he saw her standing there staring at him. "Fuck me, Ken, it's a fucking midget! Is this your wagon, freak?"

"No. It's your wagon." She assured him quietly. "Lewis Hoxton, I presume?"

"Who the fuck wants to know?" Both men had stopped struggling, partially because they'd realized the futility, but mostly because they were intrigued by the conversation.

"You wouldn't recognize my name, but you would know my father's; Henry Grovesner. Does that ring a bell?"

"I can't say that it does, what about you, Ken?"

"Never heard of 'im."

"The butcher on Poland Street, there was a meat grinder and a hand…"

"That one? Yeah, of course I remember that one. You got carried away that day, Ken." The older man's survival instinct told him one of them would have to die to satisfy this madwoman. Lewis thought he might have a chance to escape if she focused on Ken.

Ken saw what his colleague was doing and tried to turn the tables. "That was almost forty years ago. It wasn't my fault; I was a young lad back then. You lot should have reined me in."

Lucille didn't want to listen to them argue, she wanted to hear them beg for forgiveness. She tugged roughly on the ropes pulling their arms out of the wagon. They both groaned as their shoulders were wrenched.

"Listen. I'm really sorry about your dad, but it was just business. He wasn't meant to die. It was an accident." Lewis began to plead. "Don't turn us into the coppers and we'll make it worth your while."

"Ha! If I let you go, you'd kill me in a blink." Lucille laughed.

Ken grunted in agreement.

"But don't worry, fellas, I won't be turning you into the authorities."

"Then what do you plan to do?"

"I plan to give you the same chance you gave my father." She turned and picked up the rusty ax that she'd found in one of the poacher's shacks. She saw realization dawn in Lewis' eye.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ken demanded, starting to squirm again. "What do you mean, the same…HOLY GOD!"

Lucille had swung the ax with all her might. Her strength was fine, but her aim was poor. She hit higher up on his arm than she'd planned. The ax did not quite make it all the way through the bones and flesh. Ken screamed in agony as his instincts told him to pull his arm away. His severed sinews stretched as he pulled. A second swing of the ax finished the job. Ken rolled away from the hole in the side of the wagon clutching his arm to him miserably.

"Mercy! Please! Mercy!" Lewis was yelling.

"Did my father ask for mercy?"

"Yes, but it was too late. It was Ken that killed him, not me!"

"But you were there."

"Yes, I admit it. Please, call the cops, I'll tell them everything."

"Tell it to the Devil." Lucille's aim was truer this time. The rusty old ax sliced through Lewis' arm just as she'd planned. The bones of the forearm were shattered; this was no clean amputation. She wanted them to suffer as her father had suffered. Lewis howled. Their groans were very satisfying, but she needed something more. She needed to hear fear and panic.

"Would you like a cigarette?" Lucy lit a cigarette and tossed it into the wagon. She used the same match to light a clump of dried grass she had prepared. The grass caught immediately in the dry summer heat.

Ken was the first of the two to realize what was happening. He'd been writhing on the floor, trying to apply some pressure to the painful remainders of his arm. At the first sign of smoke, he had rolled over, stood up and ran to the door. He pushed against the door and found that it was blocked. He pushed harder and harder, but found that he was tiring very quickly.

"Lewis! Help me push, man. It's our only hope." He slouched against the door as he grew lightheaded and unstable.

But Lewis Hoxton was simpering in the corner like a little girl cradling her dolly. The fire was taking off faster than even Lucille had anticipated. Black smoke was starting to rise above the wagon. This would bring the authorities very quickly, just as she had hoped. Lucille knew she had to make herself scarce, but she did not want to leave these two alive. Contrary to her words, she had no intention of giving them any chances.

Sounds of struggle inside the wagon stopped. She heard Fletcher's huge mass hit the floor. The fumes from the fire were doing their work. Satisfied that their fate was sealed, Lucille left the scene as the flame heights grew and obscured the wagon from sight.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Shout out to Game of Thrones, Star Wars and Romancing the Stone for the amputation inspiration ;)**


	51. Fire and Ice

The woods were chaos. People from the village had come to help, but there was no order. The flames among the underbrush were roaring, making people shout to be heard. People ran about with rakes and shovels unsure of what to do. Embers were raining from the sky. Fools rushed forward to stamp out a bit of flaming grass as a treetop torched above them.

Four lads from the village who fancied themselves the fire brigade had strapped a water tank into the bed of a truck. They had filled buckets from the tank and started a bucket line. They'd used all their water within ten minutes of arriving. They had packed up and gone off in search of more water, leaving folks holding empty buckets and standing far too close to the advancing front of the fire.

Detective Alexander grabbed Sergeant Little and barked, "Get those people under control, Sergeant! Tell them to stand back."

Tom stood beside Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson watching as the police tried to organize those who had come to help. All three men looked perfectly calm, but they were all thinking the same thoughts. They were cataloging buildings that would be threatened. They were picturing a map and thinking of natural breaks in the forest where a defense could be possible.

It was an easterly wind, pushing the flames towards the main house, but that was not a huge concern. The wide expanse of grass and the gravel road were more than just decorative, they were defensive. There were, however, barns and silos that would be in danger. Tom spoke first.

"The stables are closest, but they should be safe if the wind holds. We should have people there, filling the troughs and ready for a wind shift."

Lord Grantham nodded grimly. He remembered stories his grandfather told of the fire of 1846, he understood what they were up against. "As dry as things are, the creek that runs from the lake may be our first logical line to hold. If it jumps the creek, we might lose the whole woods."

"I'll get men with axes and saws down there at once. If we fell enough of the trees along the creek, the fire won't have anywhere to go." Tom walked purposefully off in search of trustworthy men.

"What do you think, Carson?"

"I'd get those men with shovels to widen the path that runs between the folly and the meadow. There aren't a lot of trees there, but it could still jump the path."

"Can you handle that?"

"At once." Carson grabbed a handful of the tenant farmers and headed off towards the meadow. He spied Detective Alexander and peeled off, sending the men on before him with their orders.

"Detective? Do you think _she_ started this?"

Detective Alexander nodded. "We found an abandoned Romani wagon. That looks to be where the fire started."

"Did you find her?"

"No. But we found evidence that she did, indeed, catch her men." The detective did not think now was the time to describe the two hands they'd found hanging in a tree beside the wagon. His mind amended that. They weren't just two hands dangling from the green tree beside the smoldering wagon. They were forearms; bloody chunks of flesh pointing accusing fingers at Detective Alexander for not stopping Mrs. Butte.

"We haven't searched the wagon yet, but I'd be surprised if she was there. Our first priority is to tame this fire, which is what I have my men attempting to do."

"All of your men?" Carson asked, a terrible thought occurring.

"Of course. You can't go at these things half measured, Mr. Carson." But the butler did not hear this last; Carson was running back towards the unprotected house. He cursed his stupidity as he ran.

-00-

Elsie, Beryl and Daisy watched the black smoke rising over the woods. Sometimes there would be a little column of white smoke in the midst of the black. Elsie assumed this was one of the shacks burning.

Staring at the smoke wasn't going to do anything, Elsie reminded herself. She went back inside and opened her Bible to the book of Job.

_By what way is the light parted, which scattereth the east wind upon the earth?  
><em>_Who hath divided a watercourse for the overflowing of waters, or a way for the lightning of thunder;  
><em>_To cause it to rain on the earth, where no man is; on the wilderness, wherein there is no man;  
><em>_To satisfy the desolate and waste ground; and to cause the bud of the tender herb to spring forth?  
><em>_Hath the rain a father? or who hath begotten the drops of dew?  
><em>_Out of whose womb came the ice? and the hoary frost of heaven, who hath gendered it?  
><em>_The waters are hid as with a stone, and the face of the deep is frozen.  
><em>_Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion?  
><em>_Canst thou bring forth Mazzaroth in his season? or canst thou guide Arcturus with his sons?  
><em>_Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven? canst thou set the dominion thereof in the earth?  
><em>_Canst thou lift up thy voice to the clouds, that abundance of waters may cover thee?  
><em>_Canst thou send lightnings, that they may go and say unto thee, Here we are?  
><em>_Who hath put wisdom in the inward parts? or who hath given understanding to the heart?  
><em>_Who can number the clouds in wisdom? _

Elsie couldn't make head nor tails of this. She read back a ways, God was arguing with Job, telling the man to stop questioning him because no man could understand the vastness of God and the universe. Or something like that, Elsie shrugged and started reading again, trying to see the verses from the perspective of a madwoman.

"Elsie?" Beryl's voice was uncharacteristically timid. Elsie did not bother to look up.

"Please don't bother me now, Mrs. Patmore, I'm trying to figure out where that madwoman might be."

"I can help you with that." Beryl said, a tinge of gallows humor in her voice.

"Then come in and help, don't linger in the doorway." Elsie snapped. "Help me with this verse…"

"You don't need the verse, Elsie." The tone of Beryl's voice made Elsie look up finally. Mrs. Butte was standing behind Beryl with a gun pressed into her back.

"It's not nice to call someone a madwoman," Lucille chastised.

"I would apologize to you, Mrs. Butte, but for two things; one, you are mad and two, you called me a witch. Let's call it even, shall we?"

"Yes, let's not quarrel. In fact, I'd like for you to take a walk with me, Mrs. Hughes."

"My name is Mrs. Carson, as much as you might wish otherwise." Elsie could not help provoking the woman.

"A technicality that will not matter for much longer." Lucille said darkly. She waited for Elsie to move, but the housekeeper remained stubbornly seated. Lucille shrugged. "I've plenty of bullets in this gun to spare one for Mrs. Patmore if you don't cooperate."

Elsie stood at once. "If you want Charles to come find us, you'd best leave a better clue. Only an insane person could decipher this." She pointed at the Bible.

"Charles will figure it out. He understands me better than you think."

Elsie's nostrils flared, but she kept her silence. She was not jealous of this woman, how could she be? But she did not like hearing Mrs. Butte speaking so familiarly about Charles and even calling Elsie's husband by his given name.

Lucille stepped back from the door and let the two women walk towards the backdoor in front of her. Elsie took Beryl's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Elsie and Beryl entered the courtyard where Daisy stood silent and trembling. Just as they exited, a timorous voice called out. "Stop right there!"

Everyone turned towards Mr. Molesley, who was pointing a pistol at Mrs. Butte with an unsteady grip.

"Do you intend to shoot me, Mr. Molesley, or Mrs. Patmore?" Lucille teased. Indeed, either outcome seemed as likely as the other. Beryl looked more nervous than before. "Mrs. Hughes and I are just going for a walk. I have no quarrel with you, Joseph."

"Well, I have a quarrel with you." He cocked the pistol. "You're insane and I cannot let you take Mrs. Carson."

Lucille did not flinch as he pulled the trigger. She could tell that the bullet was not coming anywhere near her. Mrs. Patmore squealed and ducked. A puff of powder and some slivers of brick were blown off the wall well over everyone's head.

With a sigh of something like regret, Lucille shot Molesley in the right shoulder. The impact drove him off of his feet. Swiftly, Lucille ran over and retrieved his gun, which she tucked into the back sash of her dress. She looked down at Molesley and shook her head. He was gripping his shoulder and wincing in pain.

"Are we all done playing hero?" She looked around the courtyard and was satisfied by the lack of answer. Lucille motioned for Mrs. Patmore to step aside. The cook stepped quickly away and placed her arms around a now crying Daisy. Mrs. Butte removed the lantern from its hook beside the backdoor. "Now, let's get going, shall we? We have a quick stop to make before our final destination, Mrs. Hughes."

-00-

Charles heart was racing as he ran around the back of the house. In the courtyard he found Daisy and Mrs. Patmore kneeling over an obviously injured Molesley.

"Oh, Mr. Carson! She's taken Elsie." Beryl cried out as she heard him arrive.

"Do you know where?"

"No, but Elsie was trying reading that verse and trying to figure it out. The Bible was out on her desk when that madwoman came for her."

Charles wanted to dash into the house, but his sense of responsibility stopped him. "How is Molesley?"

"He's been shot, so he's not doing great." Beryl snapped.

"I'm fine, Mr. Carson. Go save Mrs. Carson." Molesley croaked weakly, but with grim determination.

"Daisy, call the hospital or have someone drive him there as soon as you can." Carson ordered, feeling very proud of Mr. Molesley in that moment.

"Mrs. Butte took the lantern." Daisy told Carson as he headed into the back entrance, to look for a clue as to where Mrs. Butte had taken Elsie.

"What lantern?"

"The one we keep by the backdoor, there." She pointed at the empty hook. "What do you think it means?"

"I don't know, Daisy, but I'm sure it's important. Thank you." Carson hurried inside and into Elsie's office. He saw the Bible open beside the letter. After a quick reminder of what verses she had referenced, he read them quickly. At first glance, they meant nothing. There was talk of wind and rain and clouds, but nothing about a place. Why had she needed the lantern? A dark place?

He read again. The line, '_Hath the rain a father?_' jumped out at him. Lucille was trying to avenge her father, but was that what was important? '_Out of whose womb came the ice? and the hoary frost of heaven, who hath gendered it? The waters are hid as with a stone, and the face of the deep is frozen.__'_

"Of course!" Charles knew where he was going.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN The next chapter should be nuts. I hope to post very quickly.**


	52. In the Cold, Cold Ground

**Second Update today! Make sure you read the other one first!**

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><p>Charles grabbed the spirit lamp from Elsie's desk and started for the backdoor. He heard a scream just as he opened the inner door. Rushing out into the courtyard, he saw Mrs. Patmore lying on the ground.<p>

"She…she fainted." Daisy stuttered. The girl was pale and looked even more frightened than she had before.

"I expect it's because she saw a ghost." Molesley teased weakly. Miss Baxter was kneeling beside him fussing and weeping. "Phyllis, love, I'm fine. I'm going to be fine."

Joseph pulled her in for a hug with his uninjured arm. Joseph Molesley had always considered himself a coward. He'd gone out of his way to avoid facing the trenches and the bullets in France. Now that a bullet had found him, he was astonished at how calm he could be. The pain was more than anything he'd ever experienced and he felt weak, but his mind had achieved a clarity that was more than he'd ever experienced as well. He knew he would live. He knew he would marry Phyllis. He knew he was strong enough, man enough to make her happy.

His embrace calmed Phyllis and she remembered why she had come to the Abbey. She'd seen the smoke and had heard the shot. Unable to wait passively in the Carson's home anymore, Phyllis had ventured out. She had seen Mrs. Butte driving Mrs. Carson before her. She had seen what Mrs. Carson was carrying. "Mrs. Butte and Mrs. Carson…they've gone to…"

"The ice house. I know." Carson finished quickly. "I'm going there now. Daisy, send Mr. Bates to find a policeman and tell them to be careful when they approach."

"There's more, Mr. Carson." Phyllis warned as he turned to leave. "It looks like Mrs. Butte has taken one of the barrels of gunpowder from the gun shed. She was making Mrs. Carson carry it."

"Thank you for the warning. Please tell the police that as well." Charles knew exaclty what Miss Baxter meant. They kept small, five pound kegs of gunpowder in the gun shed as His Lordship preferred that they fill their own shells rather than purchase already assembled ammunition.

"You should take a gun, Mr. Carson." Molesley advised.

Charles set his jaw and shook his head. "There isn't time and a gun isn't going to solve this." He turned and ran off towards the lake.

The estate ice house had not been used since the fourth Earl of Grantham fell on hard economic times. As he ran, Charles remembered taking part in the ice harvest several times when he as a young lad. Men with saws and drills had cut blocks of ice from the lake's surface while the hall boys slid the blocks across the lake to waiting handcarts. The lads had made a game of trying to bowl each other over. Many an unsuspecting hall boy had fallen victim to the ice during these hours of joyously hard work. Once the blocks were brought to the shore, strong farmhands transported the ice up a slight hill in the carts and unloaded them into the ice house.

Charles cast back in his memory for details of the building. From the outside, the house was just a small stone dome. It was less than fifty feet in diameter and looked like a burial mound or one of those igloos built by native tribes who lived in the far north of Canada. Inside, it felt much larger than it looked from the outside. Most of the building, indeed, was underground. The floor of the ice house was conical, with the center almost twenty feet below ground level. The cone was made of concentric circles layered like steps; each one slightly smaller than the one above it. It looked like a tiny amphitheater.

The bottom was filled with gravel and there was a small grate where the water from the melted ice would drain out to join the small creek that ran back into the lake. It was rare to actually see the bottom of the building while it was still a functioning ice house. During the harvest they would lay down alternating layers of ice and straw until the dome was packed. During the year, the temporary, icy floor would recede slowly as the blocks were used or the ice melted.

When money woes had led to the reduction of staff, harvesting the ice was too expensive an operation. Ice truly became a luxury at Downton. On the few occasions when cook required ice, the estate bought blocks from a company in Thirsk who imported their ice from Norway. The ice house had fallen into disuse and had been forgotten by most at Downton. Charles wondered very much how Mrs. Butte had come to find it, but he had no doubt that was where she had taken Elsie.

When Charles arrived at the now moss and grass covered dome, he saw that the short door had been forced open. Even though ice had not been stored here in years, the air coming from inside the dome was frigid compared to the summer breeze. Charles paused briefly to light the lamp in his hand. He had to stoop his massive frame to fit through the doorway. Charles called out as he ducked his way into the ice house.

"Hello? Mrs. Butte?"

Charles saw the light of a lantern, but little else as his eyes adjusted. He took a step down onto a lower level of the conical floor so that he could now stand upright.

"You came." Lucille's voice echoed in the stone dome. "I knew you would."

"I came for my wife." Charles said, disdain dripping from his words.

"There she is." Lucille's shadow indicated a heap in the middle of the floor. Charles heart clenched until he saw her stir.

"Elsie?"

"I'm okay, Charles. Just a wee bit tied up at the moment."

He struggled not to burst into tears as he heard his brave woman's signature sarcasm. She sounded as angry as a wet hen, but she wasn't hurt. He wasn't too late. There was still hope for them both.

"Mrs. Butte, please let her go."

"But she's part of this, Charles. She's the one who came between us."

"Mrs. Butte, I am truly sorry if you misconstrued any of my actions towards you, but let me be clear; there has never been, nor shall there ever be anything between you and I."

"I know that isn't true. Your kindnesses to me are more than could be explained away by mere politeness."

"You've not been well treated in your life, Mrs. Butte. I understand that. I understand that you might mistake ordinary actions for extraordinary declarations, but that is not the case. I did nothing for you that I would not have done for anyone else."

"You're wrong. You can tell yourself that, but deep down, you love me and that's why you were so kind to me." Lucille's voice was low, but becoming agitated. "She blinded you to your love for me. She's to blame."

"It is you who are wrong, Mrs. Butte. Elsie brought love into my life. But for her, I would never have known what it is to love as deeply and completely as a man can love." Tears were falling from his eyes now. Fear gripped his heart, as he struggled to remain calm. "If you care for me at all, you will repay my kindness with kindness. Let her go."

"But if I do, you'll leave too."

Charles paused for only a brief moment before whispering, "I promise to stay if you let her go."

"Charles, no!" Elsie could stay silent no longer. "She's mad; she'll kill you."

"I hope that she won't, but one thing at a time, my dear." Charles stepped away from the door and slowly inched to his left. Lucille matched his motions to remain exactly opposite him with Elsie between them. They continued to move until Lucille was standing beside the doorway.

"That's the only way in or out, Mrs. Butte. You are in control." Though his face was still wet with tears, she could not hear it in his voice. "Please let her go."

"And you'll stay?"

"I will."

"Agreed." Lucille moved down the steps of the floor towards Elsie.

"No." Elsie said simply.

"Elsie, you need to leave." Charles voice cracked with emotion. "I need you to leave."

"I won't go." Elsie's determined voice declared.

"Elsie, for once in our lives, will you please just do as I say?" Charles raised his voice and gritted his teeth in frustration. He needed all his wits to deal with Mrs. Butte. He could not fight with Elsie as well.

She could hear the fear in his voice, but leaving him was not an option in her mind. Through tears, she told him, "I can't leave you, love. I can't."

"I need to know that you are safe. Please."

"She's brought a powder keg with us. I'm sure she means to blow this place to pieces and you with it."

"I know that and I'm sure you are correct, which is exactly _why _I need you to leave." His tone was the one he adopted when trying to explain to her why certain place settings could never be used with certain crystal ware. He knew he could not convince her. The best he could hope for was that she would let him win simply because she knew it was important to him.

"If she is going to blow you up, then she is going to blow me up." Her voice rose as her fear flowed out as anger.

"I don't think she'll mind that at all. But the goal is for nobody to be blown up, you infuriating woman!" Charles snarled back, frustrated and frightened. "How am I supposed to reason with Mrs. Butte when I can't even convince my own wife to save her own life?"

Though he had just referenced her, both Carsons seemed to have forgotten that Mrs. Butte was there.

"And what use is my life to me without you, you pigheaded fool?"

"It's of more use to you than your death is to me! Get the hell out of here, Elsie. I command you!"

"You _command _me? Charles Edward Carson, so help me…"

The echoing report of a gun rang out inside the ice house. The fighting couple were at once silenced and deafened.

Lucille looked down at the pistol in her hand in confusion. She hadn't fired it. Before she could look up, someone smacked her across the face and sent her tumbling to the gravel floor beside Elsie.

The echoes died down and the Carsons looked up at their rescuer. Two silhouettes stood in the entry; one broad and tall beside another much smaller.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carson," Miss Baxter's small voice filled the chamber. "I'd like you to meet my husband, Kenneth Fletcher."

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say. **

**I know an ice house has never been mentioned on the show, but I really think one would exist. It is likely that the lake was created for that express purpose back in the day. Here's what I found on wikipedia… **

_The ice house was introduced to Britain around 1660. Various types and designs of ice house exist. However, British ice houses were commonly brick lined, domed structures, with most of their volume underground. Ice houses varied in design depending on the date and builder, but were mainly conical or rounded at the bottom to hold melted ice. They usually had a drain to take away any water. It is recorded that the idea for ice houses was brought to Britain by travellers who had seen similar arrangements in Italy, where peasants collected ice from the mountains and used it to keep food fresh inside caves.__ Ice Houses may also be known as Ice Wells, Ice Pits or Ice Mounds. _

**Until the early 1900's harvested ice was still being shipped from Scandinavia and other colder regions. By the 1920's most ice in Britain was produced in plants and the import business died out. That's what I gathered, at least.**


	53. Flashback

**Warning: Some graphic descriptions of bloody stuff and strong language. Not super bad, but just wanted to warn some of our gentler souls.**

**Also, Trigger Warning; there is reference to rape within the institution of arranged marriage.**

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><p>The heavy mass of Ken Fletcher fell upon the wagon's floor. The bloody stump of his severed arm was trapped beneath him. The pain pulled him back from the precipice of unconsciousness. Down on the floor, the air was clearer. Grasping at his arm, Ken saw blood seeping out of the stump with each pulse of his heart. He'd seen enough injuries in his time to know what to do. Without thinking, he yanked off his belt with his remaining hand and wrapped it around his right forearm. He pulled it as tight as he could, ignoring the pain by focusing on the terrible things he was going to do to the daughter of Henry Grovesner.<p>

Ken hadn't risen through the ranks of the gang based on luck and nepotism alone. He was a resourceful man; crude and rough, but resourceful. He used the knife to trim the belt short so that it would not bother him as he moved. Staying low, Ken moved to Lewis' side. Ken could see how weak his pulse had become as almost no more blood was coming from Lewis' arm.

The dry wood of the wagon was burning quickly and the heat was increasing rapidly. Ken realized that saving Lewis would endanger his own life. _'Poor sod's as good as dead anyway.'_ The most important thing was to survive himself. Ken knew that the smoke would overwhelm him quickly if he stood. Did he dare try the door again? None of the windows were large enough for him. Frustration was building when Ken noticed that it was strange how the smoke had not filled the wagon. The smoke was escaping somehow. He watched the flow of the smoke for a few seconds and realized that there must be a hatch in the roof. He'd seen wagons like this before; a hatch was a good likelihood.

He took a deep breath and stood up, forcing his good arm straight up at the place in the roof where the smoke seemed to be escaping. He felt the hatch fly open. Ken ducked down below the smoke, which was escaping at a much quicker rate now, and pulled a stool into the middle of the wagon. One more deep breath and Ken propelled himself through the roof of the burning wagon. He rolled off the roof quickly and onto the ground. The fall almost jostled the belt loose from his arm, but he still managed to struggle to his feet and dash away from the flames before nearly collapsing against a tree.

Leaning there briefly, Ken fought the need to close his eyes. Ken had lost blood before; he'd been knifed several times on the streets and in prison. This was more blood than he'd ever lost, but he refused to succumb. Ken ignored the shaking of his body and the cold in his feet and hand. There was no time for shock.

_'That bitch is going to pay.'_ The thought kept him focused as he forced himself to stand up straight and walk on.

-00-

"The hospital is sending an ambulance," Daisy reported. "They'll be here soon, Mr. Molesley, you just hang in there."

They'd made Molesley as comfortable as they could in the courtyard, not wanting to move him. He sat propped up against the wall with several blankets covering him to keep him warm. They had tied a mass of bandages to the wound as firmly as they dared. Miss Baxter knelt beside him, holding his left hand.

"Thank you, Daisy, that's what I plan to do." Joseph gazed dreamily up at Phyllis who smiled lovingly down on him. "Like an angel," he sighed.

"What's that?" She knew she needed to keep him awake.

"You look like an angel,"Joseph repeated, louder this time and clearer. "Or what I think an angel must look like."

"Well, it will be a long time before you can confirm what angels look like, I hope."

"As do I." He pulled Phyllis' hands to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist gently. Dormant synapses fired deep inside of her.

"Oy, that's a married woman you're kissing, mate."

Phyllis knew that voice. It had haunted her days and nights since she was seventeen years old. The lovely tingling in her lower stomach turned into a sharp pain as Phyllis turned to face her husband. The differences between the man she married and the man she loved were extreme. Ken was muscular and confident. Joseph was thin and nervous. Ken was cruel and selfish where Joseph was kind and giving. The biggest difference was how they each made her feel. Never in all her years of marriage, in all her nights of obedient intimacy with her husband had she felt any fraction of the heat that stirred within her when Joseph only smiled at her.

Ken had tried to be patient when they were married, but after a month where his young bride would not perform her wifely duty, he had invoked his right as a husband. It wasn't that he couldn't relieve his tensions with any number of London whores. He had been embarrassed when his mates surmised that he hadn't even slept in the same room as his wife. He'd come home from the pub after a night of ridicule and burst into her room. He was drunk and rough and strong. Phyllis knew better than to resist him. It was over quickly and he was gone before her first tears fell. For ten years it was the same.

He usually contented himself with his whores, but he didn't leave her alone entirely. The worst part was that she never knew when the mood to be Master of His House would strike him. For over ten years she had cringed at the sound of an opening door. When her Uncle Lewis had questioned why Phyllis hadn't given Ken a child, the abuse became a nightly occurrence. It was this treatment that finally drove her to leave.

Seeing him again after all this time brought back that meek and timid woman who had suffered silently in an arranged marriage.

"I said, you're kissing someone's wife. My wife, to be exact." Ken walked further into the courtyard. Phyllis noticed another difference between Ken and Joseph; whereas Joseph had misfired when he had held the pistol on Mrs. Butte, Ken held the gun in his left hand steady with deadly aim. Phyllis felt Joseph's hand squeeze her hand almost imperceptibly.

"I'll be seeking a divorce, Ken." She said bravely. Phyllis knew this was not the time and place for such things, but she wanted Joseph to know that she did not want to be with Ken.

"You can seek all you want, my filly, but you ain't gonna get it." Phyllis tensed at his use of what he thought was a cute pet name for her. The memories and connotations associated with the name stole back some of the courage she'd gained from Joseph's touch. Ken pointed the pistol at Molesley. "Someone left your gun shed unlocked, mate. That's a mite dangerous."

His sneer was just as she remembered it. "Come here, filly. Come to your dear husband." With the gun leveled at Joseph, his meaning was clear. If she did not obey, Joseph would be the first victim.

Phyllis pried herself away from Joseph's weakening grasp and went to stand beside her husband. Daisy and Mrs. Patmore stood to the side, holding each other's hands. They were grateful that this business did not involve them but frustrated that there was nothing they could do.

"I've missed you, my filly. I'm glad to see you ain't dead." Ken gave her a sloppy kiss, holding him to her with his injured arm as well as his left. She felt the pistol pushing into her backside as he tried to fondle her bottom around the gun he held. Phyllis did not respond to his kiss.

"When I got out of prison, the first thing I did was ask for a timid, mousy whore. She reminded me of you." He continued to hold her against him and she was not surprised to feel the hardness of his excitement against her. Ken had always been stimulated by violence. It brought out the alpha male in him, she supposed. He kissed her roughly again, grinding himself against her like an animal in heat.

"But that will come later, love." He whispered a promise that he honestly thought would excite her.

"Right now, I'm looking for the bitch who cut off my hand." Ken held up his arm, which was a mess of dried blood. "She says she's the daughter of Henry Grovesner."

Phyllis nodded. "Her name is Lucille Butte."

"Where is she?"

"She's gone to the ice house."

"Show me." He gestured with his bloody arm. "And if any of you lot get ideas about following…" He didn't finish the sentence but waved the gun at them before pointing it at Phyllis.

The reunited husband and wife turned in unison to leave, but Phyllis stopped abruptly and turned. She looked at Joseph. He was gripping the blanket in his hand until his knuckles were white. He would not risk her life by provoking this monster, but watching Ken paw at the woman he loved had obviously angered and hurt him.

There were a thousand things Phyllis wanted to tell Joseph. She wanted to say how he had brought joy and tenderness into her life. She wanted him to know that he had given her faith in humanity when she thought the world was only filled with men like her family, her husband and Thomas. She said as much as she could with her eyes. With her lips, she simply said, "I love you."

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN Thank you for all the lovely reviews on the last chapter. I'm glad Ken's appearance was a surprise. He was never going to die that easily; not without seeing Phyllis.**

**FYI, I am hoping to post again later today... we are VERY near the end. **


	54. Something in the Tea

**Two in one day again! I promise, I'm posting as fast as I can write!**

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><p>When Ken and Phyllis reached the ice house, they could hear shouting coming from inside. Pushing Phyllis in before him, Ken ducked into the low doorway. By the light of the two tiny lanterns, he saw what he needed to see; Lucille Butte, his victim. When he'd heard enough of the other couple bickering, he fired his pistol, pointing it back out the door. He slapped the pistol grip across Lucille's face and watched with pleasure as she tumbled down the stepped ice house floor.<p>

"Mr. and Mrs. Carson," Miss Baxter's small voice filled the chamber. "I'd like you to meet my husband, Kenneth Fletcher."

With Mrs. Butte knocked to the ground, Charles moved quickly to Elsie's side.

"Don't even think of going for that gun, mate." Ken had mistaken Carson's movement towards Elsie as an attempt to procure Lucille's gun which had fallen at Elsie's feet. "Phyllis, love, would you please retrieve that pistol?"

Phyllis did as she was told as Charles pulled Elsie up from the gravel floor, away from the powder keg and opposite Fletcher and the doorway. He was trying to untie her bindings as quickly as possible. He wanted Elsie able to run or fend for herself. There was no telling what might happen now that they'd added another murderer to the equation.

"Put it there." Ken indicated that Phyllis place the pistol on the upper level beside the door, just to his left. If he needed to, he could empty his first gun and then grab the second.

Lucille had been dazed by the blow, but also by the fall. She looked up from the bottom of the ice house and saw two people she thought were dead; two people she had killed. For a moment she thought the keg must have blown and they were all dead.

"You'll have to wait your turn," she slurred to her ghosts as she pulled herself off the ground. Blood trickled from her temple where she had struck a corner of stone. "Now that we're dead, you have to choose me, Charles. How can you refuse me after all I've done for you?"

Charles looked from the madwoman to the one armed man. Fletcher gestured as though he wanted Charles to answer the question. "I never asked you to do anything for me, Mrs. Butte. How could killing poor Ivy or James help me?"

"They were helping Thomas spy on you."

"What did you do with Ivy's body?" Elsie asked, this mystery having never been fully explained.

"Ivy was a dull girl in life, so I had to add some spice to her." Lucille giggled at the memory. "She finally made a meal Mrs. Patmore approved of. In fact, the whole staff liked her."

"You fed her to the staff?" Fletcher asked with grudging respect.

"She made a tasty sausage. It was you who gave me the idea. You put my father in a meat grinder." She accused the ghost.

"But I didn't make him into sausage and feed him to people." Fletcher sounded as though he were upset with himself for missing the opportunity.

"I told you to wait your bloody turn!" Lucille snapped at Fletcher. She turned back to Charles and Elsie. She took a faltering step towards them and nearly tripped over the powder keg. She looked down at the keg in confusion. Why would she have brought the powder keg to the afterlife with her?

Lucille shook her head to clear it. The four other people watched her in silent wonder. None of them could fathom what might be going through a mind like hers. What a fine line there was between reality and madness in a tormented mind. "We aren't dead, are we?"

No one dared answer her question. "Did you find Miss O'Brien's tea?" To Lucille, it would explain her current state of confusion.

"Tea?" Elsie questioned.

"The special tea from India; the one that we gave to Mr. Bates to drive him mad by little bits."

Charles and Elsie nodded knowingly to each other. They finally had an explanation for Mr. Bates' erratic behavior.

"If we're not dead…" Lucille's mind cleared and she assessed the situation with clinical precision. She was surrounded. The butler and his Scottish Kelpie were trapped. The one armed man had two guns. Mrs. Hoxton-Fletcher was still alive. Lucille still had the gun she'd taken from Molesley tucked into the back of her dress sash. There was a keg of gun powder at her feet.

"Not dead yet, my lovely." Fletcher crooned. "You had your chance, now it's my turn." He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers and did likewise with the second gun. Then, he stepped down towards her, pulling out his knife from its sheath on his leg.

"This isn't a game, Mr. Fletcher, there aren't turns. Besides, it would be ungentlemanly of you to kill a lady."

"You ain't no lady and there ain't no rules of chivalry in play here. You killed my mate and you tried to kill me. The way I sees it, I have to kill you."

All the occupants of the ice house began to shift about slowly. Lucille backed away from Fletcher, but he circled about as he stepped down, closing the distance between them. Charles and Elsie both climbed up to the topmost ring of stones and tried to slink towards the exit where Phyllis was gesturing to them. Let the two animals kill each other, Elsie thought.

They were still a quarter of the circle away from escape when they heard the shout from outside.

"Police! You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up!" Detective Alexander was leaning against the ice house dome, beside the doorway, gun at the ready.

"Why don't you come in and get me?" Fletcher yelled back. "Or better yet, come in with _your_ hands up."

"Mrs. Butte is the one we want, Fletcher. We know you're hurt. We can help."

"I don't need your bloody help killing this bitch." He brandished the knife expertly with his left hand. "I don't even need two hands."

"Is everyone else alright?" The detective asked.

"We're fine." Carson answered. He didn't add that they'd have been better off if the police had just stayed away.

"At least send out your hostages."

"I didn't take no hostages." Fletcher barked.

"Then you'll be glad to let them go."

"She can go." He pointed at Elsie. "But he stays and so does my wife."

"I'm not leaving," Elsie repeated.

"Suit yourself," Fletcher shrugged. He couldn't care less.

"No. She's leaving." Charles grabbed Elsie by the arm and with two great strides dragged her to the doorway and threw her towards the exit. "Detective!" Detective Alexander reached in and grabbed Elsie to pull her out.

They could hear her kicking and screaming as she fought with the police. "Let me go! Let me go back! That's my husband in there." From the sound of it, she was putting up quite a fight.

"Oh, Charles!" Lucille ran up the steps and flung herself at him. "You chose me!"

Ken gave Charles a dark smirk. "You certainly know how to pick 'em, Mr. Carson; a madwoman and a hellcat."

Charles pushed Lucille back to arm's length. He wanted to strike her. After all she had done and all she had tried to do, he would have been justified. Before he could decide, there was more commotion outside.

"Please, Mrs. Carson. Ow! Please, just…What the? Grab him!"

Fletcher, Lucille, Phyllis and Charles all turned towards the door as Mr. Molesley came stumbling into the ice house. Joseph had not anticipated the floor falling away as it did. He dashed into the nothingness and fell down the stone steps roughly. Phyllis cried out and ran down to where he lay at the bottom of the ice house floor.

"I'm starting to think the madwoman has it right. There must be something in the tea around here. You're all daft!" Fletcher was laughing a full-throated laugh at the ridiculous turn of events. Part of him thought all of this must be a dream and any moment he'd wake up in his cell to tell Lewis about his mad dream.

"Joseph?" Phyllis turned him over and was relieved to see him casting a self-effacing smile up at her. He was pale, but seemed to have weathered the fall.

"I came to help."

"So I see, love."

TBC...

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><p><strong>AN Of course Molesley was going to be there for the finale...but will he be a help or a hindrance? I'm writing the final chapters right now...Reviews matter.**


	55. Finale

**AN/ And NOW! The END of The END...**

**Warning: Strong Language and Minor Violence and Major Death.**

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><p>Ken was still laughing. He returned to his spot near the entrance and sat down, assessing the scene with a mirthful grin on his face. He sheathed his knife and pulled out a gun.<p>

Phyllis was fussing over Joseph, trying to help him sit up. His back leaned against the metal grating of the drain. "You shouldn't have come, love."

"I couldn't be anywhere else." He insisted. "I know I might not be much help, but…"

"But you can give me strength." She whispered so only he could hear. She kissed his cheek and smoothed his hair.

Charles was still holding Lucille away from him by her shoulders. He could still hear Elsie fighting with the police outside. "What next?" He asked the man in charge.

"I'm going to torture that bitch you're holding. I'm going to bleed her like a stuck pig and I'm going to make her watch the man she loves suffer."

"You know she was planning to kill me. If you kill us both, she'll probably be glad." Charles tried to reason.

"You've got a point, but I didn't say I was going to kill you, did I? I'm just going to hurt you a bit." Ken pointed the gun. "But first…" He fired and Lucille let out a yelp as the bullet pierced her leg.

Instinctively, Charles caught her. In the chaos, the lantern beside them was knocked over. It rolled down the steps, the globe shattering on the first step. The flame remained lit as it rolled down towards the lowest level and the powder keg. Phyllis reacted quickly and snuffed the flame before it reached the gun powder.

Now there was only a single lantern lighting the ice house, with a halo of light coming from around the door.

"Step towards the light, Mr. Carson." Ken ordered. Charles obeyed, carrying Mrs. Butte with him.

"I'd be careful with those bullets, Mr. Fletcher." Charles warned. "Or aren't you aware that there is a keg of gun powder in here with us?"

This information was indeed new to Ken. "Gun powder you say?"

Joseph kicked the keg so that it made a knocking sound. "Right here, you lummox."

"Who are you calling a lummox? Some gall you have when you're the damn fool who came running in here." Ken scoffed. "Ain't no woman worth risking your life for."

"If you believe that, then you're the fool." Joseph countered. "I think your problem is that you know you could never deserve a woman who was worth dying for."

Ken wasn't laughing now. He jumped down the steps with frightening alacrity. He knocked Phyllis aside with his hip and kicked Joseph in the shoulder where he had been shot. "Is this how you prove that you deserve a woman? Running blindly into danger?"

Joseph screamed in pain as Ken continued to rage. "Did you think you'd impress her by being a weak, insignificant worm who whimpers at the first little bit of pain? I lost a bloody hand, man!"

Phyllis recognized this side of her husband. He would often get in rages like this, where something in him just snapped. They burned hot, but quick. She knew the only way to ride it out was to keep quiet and let him spend his anger on someone else, but she couldn't let that someone be Joseph, not in his weakened state.

"Leave him alone, Ken."

"Do you love this...this whelp?" Ken ground his heel into Molesley's shoulder.

"I do."

Still, he did not turn to face her. "Have the two of you been having it off? Eh?" He practically spit in Molesley's face. "She isn't even a good fuck, but a fruit like you wouldn't know the difference."

Joseph grabbed Ken's foot and tried to push him away but could not. He groaned in agony.

Phyllis flew at Ken with all her might. She knocked him over and kicked at him. Mr. Carson moved a second after she did, coming to her aid as Ken hit Phyllis with the bloody leather belt on his arm. The buckle hit her under the eye and cut her. Charles grabbed both of Ken's arms from behind and drove him into the powder keg head first. There was a terrible crack as the keg burst open and Ken crumbled unconscious to the floor.

Charles stood panting over Phyllis and Molesley as they clung together, each assured the other that they were fine. There were tears of joy and relief, but Charles knew their troubles weren't finished.

"Thank god, that's over." Lucille's icy voice sighed. "I thought he'd never shut up."

The three sane people looked up at the madwoman. She'd pulled the pistol out of her dress sash. Charles, Phyllis and Joseph had access to both of Ken's guns, but they dare not use them or provoke Lucille by trying to reach for them.

"You're my hero, Charles. You saved me from that monster." She tried to step towards him but grimaced as her leg throbbed in pain. Soon the pain, all pain, would be over, she thought.

Charles decided to take a different tack. "Yes, Lucille…my Lucy. When he hurt you, I knew for the first time how I truly felt. I don't want you to die. I don't want either of us to die. We can live and make a life together."

Charles Carson was still a terrible liar, but the low light of the lonely lantern and Lucille's fogged brain made her believe every word.

"There's no way out of here, Charles."

"We'll find a way. Don't you want to be with me?" He took a step up towards her. He was between her and the exit.

"More than anything."

"You've done so much for me, now let me do something for you. Let me save you." He came nearer still. Phyllis realized that Mr. Carson was shielding them from her. She lifted Joseph gently and they began inching up towards the exit, careful to make no noise.

"But the police…"

"The police are fools." He assured her in his calm, deep voice. "They'll believe whatever we want them to believe. We can pin this all on Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Hoxton. They're the criminals. You're not a criminal; you've only done as you were led to do by love."

"You do understand." Lucille smiled crazily at him. She was hypnotized by these words of kindness coming from him. "I knew you would. We were meant to be together, Charles. I've always known that and now, you know it too."

"Yes, my love, I can see now that we are meant to be together. In this life first, and then the next."

He reached her, his wide frame blocking out her view of the doorway as Phyllis pushed Joseph through in front of her. The space of the ice house brightened as the door opened. Lucille realized what had happened. Charles grabbed her arm as she aimed for the doorway. Her shot hit just above the doorway as Phyllis escaped. Charle's training as a gentleman's gentleman screamed at him that it was not proper to hit a woman, but it had to be done. With a swift backhand, he knocked her down.

Taking her gun, he ran for the door. Let the police handle the rest, he thought. He ducked out the doorway into the bright afternoon to find a dozen guns pointed at him. He dropped the pistol at once and dropped to his knees. "They're both unconscious, I don't know for how long," he gasped.

Elsie kicked the shin of the policeman holding her and broke out of his grasp to run to Charles.

Phyllis and Molesley were being loaded into the hospital ambulance.

Detective Alexander looked at Sergeant Norris. "I'm not sending any men in there. It's too dangerous. We'll wait for them to come out."

The unspoken hope was that neither ever would.

-00-

Ken Fletcher awoke to find himself face down in gunpowder. A voice was calling to him.

"Fletcher! Come out of there. It's over."

Was the voice right? Was it over? He couldn't remember. His head hurt, his arm hurt, it didn't feel like anything was over.

"Mrs. Butte! Give up! Come out of there!"

There was a small groan and a grunt above him. Was that bitch still here? He shuffled to his feet as he pulled the gun from his waistband. His vision was blurred and the room was dark. He saw a flutter of light and turned towards the lamp. It seemed to be floating in the air. But then he saw a hand holding the lantern; her hand, the hand of a madwoman.

Lucille's head was swimming. Charles had betrayed her. He didn't understand. Maybe she was just insane. No. That couldn't be it. Not after everything. She thought of what she'd done. Where had it gone wrong? A voice was telling her to give up. That voice didn't know Lucille Butte. There was still one more thing to do. Though the wife had escaped, she could still kill the brute of a husband. Lucille was surprised to find that she didn't begrudge Phyllis and Molesley escaping. Part of her might actually have been happy for them both if the capacity for happiness still existed in her.

Lucille dragged herself painfully towards the lantern. It was too late to be saved by its light, but she needed its fire. By the dim light cast from the doorway, Lucille saw a dark form moving on the floor of the ice house. _One final thing to do,_ she thought as she reached the lantern and managed to stand.

He fired just as she threw the lantern at the gun powder at his feet.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I think the word I was looking for is KABAM!**

**There will be two chapters of denouement. If you add up the 57 chapters of this story and the 43 chapters of the mother ship before this craziness happened, that will bring us to 100 chapters. Those of you who remember chapter 100 of the mother ship know what to expect...**


	56. After the Smoke Clears

**Oh, yeah, this was the second update today...Spoiler Alert...**

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><p>The concussive force of the blast blew the door off the ice house. Several of the smaller stones that made up the dome of the ice house blew off in multiple directions. A few of the larger stones fell inward. There was surprisingly little smoke after the initial plume. There was no residual fire as the house was built entirely of stone.<p>

After some intense discussion, Sergeant Little was selected to inspect the inside of the ice house. He was none too pleased with this arrangement.

"Is it sound?" Sergeant Little asked again before sticking his head inside the dome.

"Sound enough to look in from the door for starters." Detective Alexander promised him. "Here." He handed the sergeant the most powerful torch they had and a helmet.

"What's that for?" Little looked at the helmet in confusion.

"Just a precaution." Alexander assured him. Sergeant Norris began to tie a rope around Little's waist.

"Then what is the rope for?"

"Insurance." The detective smiled hearteningly.

Ready to dive out the entrance at any sound of falling stones, Little slunk his way into the ice house. The smoke had cleared quickly but the air was heavy with dust. Daylight was streaming through pinpoints in the roof in tiny bright beams. He cast the torchlight around searching for remains and to make sure no one was still alive. There was a small heap of something smoldering just opposite the entrance. It could be a body, he thought.

In the middle of the sunken floor something else smoked and smoldered. Flames lingered on the edges of the mound; likely the other body. There wouldn't have been anything else in here to burn like that. Little backed out of the dome's doorway.

"There's nothing alive in there, that's for sure. There looks to be two burnt bodies."

"Can you get to them?"

"I imagine so, but do you really want me carrying smoldering remains back to you in my bare hands?" Little asked reasonably. He was worried the Detective might answer in the affirmative.

"No. You're right, Sergeant. We'll set a guard tonight and have a crew in tomorrow to retrieve them safely." Alexander decided. He turned to the assembled police. "It's been a long day, lads. Well done." They'd managed to contain the fire in the woods once they were properly organized. They'd used the natural breaks in the woods to halt the fire's progress. A good deal of the woods had burned, but no structures were damaged beyond a few poacher's shacks. All in all, everyone was satisfied with the result. It could have been much worse.

Charles and Elsie had been taken aside and looked over by an officer who had been in the medical corps during the war. They looked shaken and disheveled, but were unhurt. Lord Grantham and Tom came over to see how they were.

"Thank God you're alright. Both of you." Lord Grantham clapped Carson on the shoulder and shook Elsie's hand in genuine joy. "Take the next two days off. You've earned it."

"But with Mr. Molesley gone as well…" Carson started to protest.

"We'll be fine. I think we'll all take the next few days easy." The Earl smiled at his loyal butler.

"I can't believe it was Mrs. Butte." Tom said wonderingly. "The county will have a field day with this. There's already been talk of a 'Crawley Curse'."

"Yes, it's a good thing Lady Rose had her coming out this year, we'll be lucky to get invited to anything next Season." Robert tried to joke but saw how much the thought of the Crawley name being impacted by these events upset Carson. "Don't worry, Carson. It won't matter in a year or so. It will all be forgotten the moment the next scandal comes along."

This did not make Carson feel any better.

"Thank you, My Lord." Elsie answered for her husband.

"You should both be fine," the constable said cheerily. They stood in unison, nodded, linked arms and began to walk home in silence.

-00-

"But she can't be in here, sir." The nurse tried to explain to Molesely yet again. His bed was in the main ward, but it was isolated by a series of paper screens. The nod to privacy was unnecessary as the rest of the ward was currently empty.

"I want to talk to the doctor, please." He said gently. He didn't want to argue with this woman, but he was not letting go of Phyllis' hand. The medic in the ambulance had already determined that the bullet had passed clean through. Either the bullet or Ken's foot had broken Molesley's collarbone at the shoulder. It would need to be cleaned and wrapped to keep immobile, the medic warned, but surgery was not likely to be needed. Surely Phyllis could stay with him through that, Joseph thought.

Dr. Clarkson arrived a short time later, having been brought up to speed by the agitated nurse. "You've had quite a day, Mr. Molesley."

Molesley shrugged with his good shoulder and smiled as if to apologize for bothering the doctor.

"And you, Miss Baxter! In all my years in the profession, I have never seen someone return from the dead." He gave her a warm smile. He assessed them both with a professional eye. Despite the nurse's vocal objections, the doctor thought more harm would be done removing Miss Baxter from Mr. Molesley than they would risk by letting her stay. "But the stories will have to wait. Let's look at our patient."

The nurse came back to clean Molesley's wound. She scowled that her authority had been so undermined. She was less than gentle when scouring the wound and she might have used a little more iodine than was strictly necessary, but Molesley was oblivious to the pain as he focused on Phyllis' smiling face. Eventually, even the nurse had to acknowledge the medicinal attributes of love.

Dr. Clarkson examined the wound before it was wrapped up. "It looks like a simple, distal clavicle fracture."

"Simple to you." Phyllis smiled proudly at Joseph. There was nothing simple about his injuries.

"Yes, well, I only meant that there is nothing to worry about. You have good circulation into your hand and we'll keep an eye on the wound for infection, but other than that, you just need to keep it immobile for a few months." Dr. Clarkson informed them both.

"Months!" Molesley panicked at the thought of being useless for months. Mr. Carson might argue that he was already useless.

"It will be over before you know it. You'll need to be especially careful the first two weeks. We'll check in often and I'll speak to His Lordship and Mr. Carson to let them know what duties you can handle as you heal."

Molesley started to protest that he could not be expected to just sit around for two weeks, but Phyllis interrupted. "Thank you, doctor."

"Yes. Thank you, doctor." Molesley agreed, his eyes focused on Phyllis. The medic in the ambulance had plastered the cut under her eye, but there was a bruise forming where Ken had hit her. She looked beautiful.

"You need to rest Mr. Molesley, and I imagine you need to as well, Miss Baxter." Clarkson advised, knowing his advice was likely to be ignored. "There is a spare blanket there if you need it, Miss Baxter."

The nurse shook her head and carried her tray of supplies out of the area set apart by the dividers.

As soon as the doctor was gone and had closed the dividers behind him, Phyllis jumped up to sit on the bed beside Joseph's left side. He placed his arm around her and she cuddled up close to him. She was worried at first that her actions might cause him additional pain, but his contented sigh assured her that he felt no pain. Her head rested on his healthy shoulder as she reached out to touch his right hand gently.

"Do you really think I'm worth dying for?" She whispered finally.

"Do you have to ask?" He placed a kiss to the top of her head and left his lips resting in her hair. "Did you mean what you said? That you love me?"

She sat up and turned so she could look into his eyes; those tender eyes. She nodded. He reached up with his good hand to gently touch the swollen area on her cheek with the back of his knuckles. Joseph swore to himself that he would make her forget every terrible thing Kenneth Fletcher had ever done to her. He would erase every rough touch she had ever felt one loving caress at a time; even if it took the rest of his life.

Phyllis placed her hand over his on her cheek and tilted her head to kiss his gentle fingertips.

"I know that I deceived you, more than once, but do I love you, Joseph. If you can learn to trust me, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Would you do me the honor of marrying me?" Her boldness startled her, but he had that effect on her.

"Isn't is customary for the man to ask?" He teased softly, his joy obvious on his face.

"I didn't want to wait." She smiled demurely.

"You wouldn't have had to wait long, love."

"Even one moment was too long, Joseph, I want to start planning my life with you now. We can go anywhere. We can do anything, as long as we're together." She dropped her chin as she looked down briefly, wondering if she wanted to bring up the next point. "If it makes any difference, I will be quite a wealthy widow."

Joseph frowned and tilted her face up to face him. "We don't need any of that man's blood money. We can make our own way."

"I was hoping you'd say that, but you still haven't answered me."

"What was the question again?"

She laughed at his obvious joke. "Joseph Molesley, will you marry me?"

"Phyllis Baxter, or Hoxton or Fletcher or whatever your name is, I would be honored to marry you," he kissed her hand.

"And I will cherish you," he kissed her wrist. Heat began to rise in her at his attentions.

"And I will love you for the rest of our days." She picked her feet off the floor and curled back beside him giving him full access to her neck and face. Her breathing became erratic as he availed himself of this access.

"Your name will be Phyllis Molesley and I will be the proudest husband in England."

Careful to avoid putting any pressure on his injured arm, Phyllis rolled over to lean over her brave man. Her knee pressed between his knees as she hovered over him. She could feel him stiffen against her. Unlike Ken earlier, Joseph's excitement was shared by its object. With a mischievous grind and a smile, she whispered, "Soon, my love."

As their lips touched and their tongues tasted, she gave him something more than a mere kiss. She gave him all that she was. She trusted him with her gentle heart that had been abused and neglected. In return, his lips vowed to protect that heart with every breath in his body. That kiss held their mutual promise to make each other strong.

TBC…

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><p><strong>AN I may have exaggerated the blast size for 5 pounds of gunpowder, but, in the enclosed space, it would have made a good bit of pressure. But yes, they are definitely dead. I promise no more surprise returns. **

**As for Baxley, I'm totally shipping them now, so long as their happiness does not preclude Chelsie.**


	57. Naked and Unafraid

**There were two updates yesterday. If you didn't get to enjoy the Baxley, go back one.**

**Warning: Strong M Rating due to sexual content. This stuff is difficult to write, but you've all been good sports and deserved a treat. It isn't quite 'Honeybear' territory, but I think it's pretty steamy…**

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><p>Charles and Elsie walked the long way around to their cottage. They did not need to discuss the decision to avoid the walled garden where Lady Flintshire had been killed. Neither of them spoke or dared to look at the other as they walked.<p>

Elsie was worried that Charles was angry with her. _Lord knew he should be._ She had stubbornly risked her life. She understood why he had ordered her to leave him. She understood why he had been so angry with her refusal. She did not want him to be angry with her, but she could not apologize for her actions. How could she have acted any differently?

Charles knew Elsie had every right to be upset with him. He had cursed at her and called her infuriating. _Which she can sometimes be._ He had acted forcefully with her. He had practically thrown her. He hoped very much that he had not hurt her.

When they reached home, Elsie made to take out her keys, but they were missing. Where had she lost her keys, she wondered. She turned to walk to the house in search of the keys or to retrieve a spare, but Charles tried the door. Sure enough, Miss Baxter had left in unlocked when she last left.

They still did not look directly at each other as Charles motioned her into the house. Inside the door they both stood in confusion as they realized that there were no coats or hats to be removed here. In silent agreement, they both walked up the stairs, Elsie just in front of Charles. In their room, they both began to disrobe as though it were any other day. The only difference was that there was no conversation between them today. He removed his shoes and set them aside to polish later. They would need it.

Today, Charles had only one cufflink to remove; the other was lost but he did not care. Then he removed his jacket and hung it on his valet stand. He began to brush the jacket as always but stopped when he saw the rip at the shoulder. He wondered if it had ripped when he was throwing his wife or when he had hit Mrs. Butte. He looked at the brush in his hand. It was shaking.

Elsie was having no luck with her buttons. Concentrate as she would, the blasted things refused to bow to her will. Her dress was suddenly oppressively tight. She needed to get out of it. Panic was rising in her as she tore more desperately at the buttons, finally ripping the dress.

At the sound of her dress being torn, Charles turned towards her. She looked up, unsure of what excuse she might give, but she saw the same look of delayed shock and confusion on Charles' face that she suspected she wore on her own.

She looked at him properly for the first time. He was half undressed, his shirt unbuttoned, but still on. She saw drops of blood on his shirt front. There were larger dark spots on his trousers. She did not know where the blood had come from exactly. He had not told her what had happened after she left the ice house; after he had thrown her out. They had not spoken at all. She had not told him how her heart had stopped when she heard that gunshot. The few short minutes between the sound of the shot and the sight of him running out of the ice house had felt like years to her; cold, empty years without him.

She felt her whole body begin to shake now. His image swam in her sight as tears welled up in her eyes. He crossed the room to her in one great step and enveloped her in his strong arms. Oh, they were such strong arms, but they were shaking too. He was shaking and weeping as she was. She pressed her face to his bared chest. The warmth was comforting and she began to calm. She needed to feel his skin against her skin. She needed to feel all of him.

Elsie began stripping off, or more precisely, _ripping off_ his clothes, not bothering with buttons. He began to do the same for her. A few times they had to help each other with particularly stubborn items, but they worked together until they were both down at last of their underclothes. The clothes they had been wearing mere minutes before lay on the floor in shreds.

Shedding his undershorts, Charles pulled her towards the bed insistently, but not roughly. She hardly needed to be led. She removed her brassiere and silk knickers before joining him. Neither of them even paused to pull the bedclothes down. They would lay on top of the comforter. Blankets would not give them the warmth they needed. Nor did they need to hide beneath the sheets. They were safe.

An odd memory flashed through Elsie's mind. When she was a girl, no matter how hot the weather she always had to have a sheet to sleep beneath. Without it she felt naked and vulnerable. Logically, she knew a thin layer of cotton would not protect her from anything, but still, she needed that sheet. Even as an adult, she had to have at least one foot secured under the sheet. She felt like it anchored her to the bed somehow. Charles had not noticed this habit yet, as they were still newly wed, but he would someday, she knew.

Charles lay down and pulled her to spoon in front of him. His body surrounded her and her shivering started to still. His own tremors eased as her heat radiated out into his body. He'd read books about surviving in extreme cold. They'd said that the best way to warm someone was by direct skin to skin contact. It had sounded silly to him when he read it. He understood now.

They lay, Charles wrapped around Elsie, skin pressed to skin, their hands linked and clasped to her breast. Their heartbeats synchronizing as their breath calmed and their tears ceased. The light outside their window flowed from yellow to red to blue to black and still they lay together. The events of the day slipped further into the past.

There was no way of knowing who began moving first. A thumb passed lightly over the back of a hand. A finger tickled down a wrist. She held his hand before them and traced each line in his palm with her fingertip. Then she ran her finger to each of his fingertips and back as though she were drawing the outline of his hand.

He was so mesmerized by the sight and sensations that he didn't hear her speak at first.

"I'm sorry, Charles." She whispered. "I'm sorry." She whispered it over and over.

It hurt him to hear her sound so small. Then he realized what she was saying and it hurt him even more.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, my love." He took her hand and began to trace hers as she had done his. He wondered if it tickled and stimulated her too. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I was so rough with you. I hope I didn't hurt you."

He felt her head turn slowly as she shook it. "It was that crazed woman who hurt me."

"_Are _you hurt, love? Why didn't you say?" He sat up in sudden concern and started to search her body for signs of injury. _Her lovely, perfect, prone body,_ he thought as he looked down on her.

"Not physically hurt, love." She assured him.

He could only grunt in response. She was so beautiful to him in that moment. She was always beautiful, but this was something more. His immediate need for her reduced him to an animal. Was it inappropriate for him to want her so badly right now? After all they'd been through?

Appropriate or not, want her he did. His body offered ample evidence to that effect. She felt his stiffness behind her. She felt her own yearning flowing hot and liquid between her legs. Just as they had not noticed the deepening of night, neither of them had not felt their bodies reacting to the needs building inside of them until this moment.

"It doesn't hurt anymore." Her voice was low and husky with lust. "Nothing can hurt me now that you've returned to me." She reached up for him, turning beneath him to face him as he lowered his body back down. He kissed her ravenously as she opened herself to him. Her tongue penetrated into his mouth as he penetrated her.

The heat between them changed as it built in intensity like a forge when feed by great bellows. They were not trying to warm each other anymore. Instead, they threatened to burn each other up with their desire.

He was weeping again. He panted promises into her ear with each movement that brought them closer together. "Oh, Elsie, oh. I'll never let you out of my sight again." They were promises he could not keep. "I'll never leave you. Never. Oh, my love. Not ever." They were promises that would be broken no matter how they tried, but she needed to hear them and he needed to make them.

"Yes, Charles, yes, I believe you." She gasped as she validated his empty promises. What did a promise mean to them right now? The future was no more real to them than the past. Neither could touch them, there was only now. Now. Now.

"Now!" She screamed out, not even knowing what she meant by it. He heard her cry and obeyed.

Their need had built so slowly but strongly that they both came with unexpected alacrity. Reaching the pinnacle of pleasure together, they both cried out. Elsie's body arched and tensed for several exquisite convulsions before falling back onto the bed. She expected him to collapse as well, either onto her or onto his side, but he did not. Even though his physical release had come, Charles did not stop or pull away. A frenzy overtook him and he continued to drive onward. He needed more. He needed to give more. She deserved more.

He had failed to protect his wife, his lover, his world. He had brought madness and danger into their lives. He must make amends. Her body, better equipped to continue their activity, quickly reawakened in response to his continuing efforts. Though he was no longer hard inside her, he was still very much inside her; filling her. She did not experience the friction that she associated with making love to him, but she still felt the pressure as he surged forward again and again. His pushing had moved them up the bed. With her legs still wrapped around him, Elsie raised her arms above her head to brace herself against the headboard. Seeing her vulnerable like that nearly drove him mad with the need to protect her.

He cupped a breast protectively and possessively. His hand was like a breast plate of armor covering her nakedness. His other hand pressed into the small of her back, holding her to him as he rolled to his back. She leaned above him, her hands pressed to the pillow on either side of his head. Both his hands fondled her breasts, cherishing their firmness and their softness. How could anything be so perfect a blend of opposites?

She tried to hide her tears from him by ducking her head against her shoulder but the tears ran down her arm. He saw them and turned his head to lick the salty drops from her wrist beside his head. "No more tears, love." It was another hopeless promise that was only true in that time and place.

He felt overwhelmed by the sight of her above him, the feel of her flesh in his hands and the taste of her tears on his tongue. She gave a triumphant burst of laughter as she felt him hardening again inside her. No one would believe her man's prowess; not at their age, she thought.

With his firmness reestablished, Elsie sat up straighter and began to move over him with renewed purpose. She was practically bouncing on him in her glee and ecstasy. Her laughter and excitement was contagious. Even though he did not know what he was laughing at, Charles joined her mirthful merriment. He held her hands in his at his shoulders, supporting her, their fingers intertwined. She leaned back, finding a spot inside her that she knew would trigger another orgasm soon. The power of their passion caused her body to tremble again, but now it was for all the right reasons.

She knew that she could not leave him in any doubt of her satisfaction. Elsie's climax was loud and violent. Her joyful release preceded his by only a few heartbeats. They hung suspended together in rapture for seconds or an eternity before she collapsed back onto his chest. She slowly disengaged from him as aftershocks still thrilled them both. Elsie slid from his sweaty body to lay beside him.

Satisfied that she was satisfied, Charles did not fight the fatigue that followed. Elsie curled her body back into his and they lay as they had begun, his front to her back, hands entwined, her thumb caressing the lines of his hand.

"How do you feel, love?" She asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it.

"Steady." He smiled into the back of her neck. "I always feel steady when I'm holding your hand."

She giggled at his sentimental answer.

"I love you, Elsie." His eyes closed as sleep approached them both.

"And I love you, Charles."

Just as he slipped into the dream world he offered a promise that he could and would keep. "I'll _always_ love you."

They lay naked and content on top of the comforter and sheets. She heard his soft snoring; her husband, her lover, her bear, her champion, her child, her everything. She pulled his hands closer to her chest and kissed them. "I've no doubt of that, love, no doubt at all."

THE END

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><p><strong>AN I hope you accept this bit of Chelsie Mness as my thanks to you. There will be an epilogue, but I'd like to thank you all now for reading this bizarre vanity project. Don't worry. You are still a good person, even if you enjoyed this. My therapist says so;)**

**Special props to GraysonSteele. A PM discussion with her spawned this disturbing child. **

**Thank you to Chelsie fan, Deeedeee, Mona Love, chelsietea, , Nothingmademehappen and any I've forgotten who were consistent reviewers all the way to the bitter end. Without their feedback, this little fic would never have been completed.**

**If you have a moment, drop me a note about what you thought of the story as a whole or of this chapter… I'd ****_kill _****for a review;)**


	58. Bloody Epilogue

**Epilogue: Wherein your author brings on the CRACK, exorcises the last of her demons and ties up lots of loose ends that you never suspected existed. People DIE; lots of people. I hope I didn't miss anyone…**

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><p>Charles and Elsie continued to enjoy their time off. They even began to discuss retirement between their long bouts of love making. Their steps were light as they walked back to the main house to resume their duties.<p>

"Best not tell Beryl about Ivy." Elsie suggested.

"Agreed." Charles gave an involuntary shudder at the thought.

-00-

In the next few weeks details about the madness of Mrs. Butte trickled out. Each new rumor was more unbelievable then the next. Almost all of them were true.

Most of the talk in town was about the Crawley Curse. Some people said the family was cursed because the first Earl of Grantham had destroyed an ancient burial mound known as Cattune Howe to level the ground on which Downton Abbey was eventually built. Some people said the current family had brought it upon themselves by being too tolerant with Thomas.

Eventually, talk of the curse died down, but people in the village still could not believe that the Crawleys were retaining the madwoman's daughter as a kitchen maid. Mrs. Patmore had almost come to blows with a woman at the market who had made the unjust comment, "Like mother, like daughter. Like as not, she'll poison them all."

Lady Edith took advantage of the negative climate to publicly acknowledge her daughter. She moved to London with the child. She took Nellie with her as a nursery maid. In Gregson's literary crowd the three of them became minor celebrities for a time until their backstories had been wrung for all they were worth. Eventually, their pasts were forgotten and they settled comfortably into the society that would accept them. Lady Cora, Lady Mary and Lady Rose visited in secret for the first year. Lord Grantham and all of the ladies were able to visit openly in the second year.

Having heard about Lady Edith's disgrace, Patrick Gordon, somewhat healed, but still horribly disfigured, sought out Lady Edith. He had become obsessed with her and had watched the family from afar. He thought she might accept him now that she had fallen into disgrace. He was hit by a car crossing the street to knock on Edith's door.

Michael Gregson, was discovered to be a prisoner of the fledgling Nazi party because he interrupted their singing in the Haufbrau House. He and his fellow captives staged a daring escape which almost succeeded. They were doing very well until their hot air balloon was shot down by the French who thought it was a UFO. The French government never acknowledged their role in the matter.

Tony Gillingham was heartened by the loss of his main competition and intended to propose to Lady Mary for a twentieth time, but he cut himself while shaving and died of blood poisoning.

After Mr. Bryant's death, Ethel Parks was hired as Nanny for little Charlie, but she proved inept and was fired. She joined a traveling circus as a snake charmer. She was bit by a snake and died. Little Charlie grew up to be a successful defense lawyer. He always defended prostitutes for free.

-00-

Mr. Molesley's shoulder healed quickly, though he had experienced a small set back when keeping it immobile on his wedding night had proved impossible. There was no doubt in his mind that the pain and the extra week of healing had been well worth it. His satisfied wife agreed.

Just as Molesley was healing and returning to his duties, Mr. Spratt was caught selling trinkets he had stolen from the Dower House. When confronted, he stabbed himself with a letter opener he had stolen from the Dowager's desk. The Dowager offered Molesley the position as butler and hired Mrs. Molesley as her maid, as her own maids kept mysteriously leaving. Phyllis' calm demeanor was a perfect match for the Dowager's caustic character.

-00-

Almost a year after Lucille's death ended her reign of terror, another Yorkshire scandal displaced the Crawley disgrace just as Lord Grantham had predicted. Lord Merton was caught up in this scandal as it involved his sons.

The eldest son, Timothy, had returned home early from an overseas diplomatic assignment to find his brother Larry in bed with his wife. With this discovery and the further discovery that this had been an ongoing arrangement, the true parentage of Timothy's four children was thrown into question.

Some years before, the promiscuous Mrs. Grey had hired a Welshwoman named West to serve as Nanny to all of her children. Nanny West had misrepresented her credentials to the Mrs. Grey by dropping the name of Crawley despite having no reference from the house.

Larry caught Nanny West treating the children that were most likely his own differently than the children believed to be legitimate. To teach her a lesson, he drugged her tea one day. In her altered state, Nanny West fell out of a fourth floor window to her death. Larry was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter and he was sentenced to five years. He was killed by his cellmate his third night in jail.

-00-

Charles and Elsie retired to a small cottage on the estate. Their guidance and expertise were often sought, but there time was their own. They spent their first anniversary and every anniversary ever after at Brighton playing in the waves and basking in the sunshine.

It so happens that neither of them EVER died. On their trip to Brighton in 1927, a meteor fell to earth and caused a tidal wave and a time bubble. They were caught in the bubble where they never age and they were never put through the ordeal of yet another war. They are perpetually wading into the water together. Or maybe they did die and they went to Heaven. Either way they are blissfully happy and together to this very day.

THE BLOODY END

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><p><strong>AN To the few, the proud, the odd and the possibly twisted who followed me into the breach, I thank you.**

**This is your LAST CHANCE to leave me a review. If you are too shy to post for the public to see who you are, feel free to PM me or post as a guest. Speaking of PM, I'll be launching Perpetual Motion in the next few hours too...I hope you'll follow me into calmer Chelsie waters, though it won't all be sunshine.  
><strong>

**Also, if ANYONE from the show EVER happens by here... PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, let Imelda Staunton have a role on Downton! She doesn't have to kill everyone, she just has to cause a bit of a stir.**


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